


Syria in Black

by q_19



Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3833626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/q_19/pseuds/q_19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post season 4. c/q povs. what's q doing in Syria? does c even care?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. q

**Author's Note:**

> tried to make this as legit as possible so apologies for both detail overload and any inaccuracies regarding either the Syrian civil war or the Levantine war.

It is darker than night in the safe house. Loud as hell though, the whine and bang of mortars exploding all around them as they sit in the midst of a civil war, waiting to start the next phase of the op. 

The other five guys are sitting together on the floor, seemingly relaxed, quietly shooting the shit, telling macho stories, trash-talking each other. Yet they are all ready, surrounded by their go kits - checking and rechecking their flak armour, M4s, pistols, ammo, grenades. 

Quinn sits by himself in the corner, covered in dust and memories. The safe house is nothing more than a concrete bunker, hidden amongst the ruins of Aleppo. And it’s still the same yet everything around it, around him, has changed.

They had crossed the Syrian border in the dead of night, avoiding the busy rebel-controlled Bab al-Hawa border crossing by hiking across the more mountainous area to the south. Then they had scurried through the city in the same darkness, past the rubble that used to be the beautiful old al-Madina souk, past the ruins of the minaret of the Great Mosque, the destruction clear even at night. 

All this for what, Quinn thinks. He’s thankful he’s been there before, seen the beauty of the old city before it was bombed into ruins. 

For a moment he drops his mental guard, wonders if Carrie’s been to Aleppo, if she’d feel the loss. As a rule he doesn’t let himself think about her, has to be on point, sharp for the mission or he won’t get out alive. 

It helps to be off the grid, no one to report to, no comms at all. Already a ghost, he thinks. Or maybe just a shadow. 

But Quinn can’t stop moments like this, when she slips through, forces her way into his thoughts. When he forgets to tell himself this is the choice he made, that there’s no going back. Not after how he ran. 

An opportunity missed. And in their line of work there usually isn’t a second chance. 

So he sits and broods, remembers the beauty of the city, the hope of love - thinks of all that’s been lost, disintegrated by the ongoing fighting. Wonders why he even gives a fuck anymore, after all he’s seen, all he’s done to perpetuate the cycle of death. 

At least they’re trying to do something about it, whether it helps in the long run or just becomes another fucking fiasco, another misstep in the war on terror. 

The operation is to take out three high value ISIS targets, men close to the self-proclaimed caliph, al-Baghdadi. The intel gives them one night, one location. It’s less than two hours until go time and Quinn is mentally preparing for the op, trying to ensure that he will be sharp. So he fucking lives through the night, hears the call of the muezzins at dawn. 

So he still has a chance to make it home. A shot at seeing her again.

His mind is somewhere between regret and hope when he hears someone yell “incoming! No sulking about the girl, douchebag!”, looks up to see a grenade flying at him. 

Quinn says a mental fuck you but doesn’t reply, just catches the canister, is about to throw it back when he hears the crackle of a radio call. He freezes and they all turn at the noise. They’ve been on radio silence since they left Turkey, were supposed to be dark until they self-extracted after the op is completed.

Rob picks up the radio and they hear Adal crisply telling them that the mission has changed, that the location is the same but only one target will be there. They are to apprehend the target and return with him to Turkey.

The group all look around at each other warily - it’s never a good thing for things to change so close to go time. Yet they all know better than to question orders, or even ask why things have been altered. 

“Copy,” Rob says, affirms they understand the new objective. 

“Back to radio silence,” Adal states. “Don’t fuck this up.” 

The radio goes dead and they all look around at each other, silently contemplating their new situation. Quinn wonders what brought about the new plans, knows they aren’t getting the whole story. Thinks it’s going to be a pain hiking a prisoner out of Syria, that it puts them all on a different level of danger. 

But there’s nothing to be done about it, he just has to suffer in silence with the rest of the team. It’s the life they signed up for and he can’t exactly quit now. 

The group sits down, discuss the implications of the new orders, hash through new scenarios, new roles in the operation. Not a lot has changed but enough to rethink all their plans, make minor adaptations that may end up being the difference between life and death. 

There’s no joking around now, everyone has their game faces on. Quinn gears up, rechecks all his weapons. Looks around, thinks to himself that it’s on. This is what he chose and he’s not going to fuck it up. Dying in Syria is not an option.

*

The mission to grab the target goes as smoothly as possible, is so on point that Quinn gets a nervous feeling, like it’s too easy. The intel is perfect, the guy is in the right place at the right time with only a small group of guards - all quickly taken out at close range with silenced weapons. Even their new prisoner doesn’t struggle much when they grab him, gets up and goes with them when prodded with an assault rifle. 

They head west through the city, hear intermittent mortar attacks between the rival factions still fighting it out but manage to make it to the outskirts of town before daybreak, seemingly without being noticed. 

Their extraction route takes them through rebel-controlled territory, an opposition made up of many groups united against Assad’s Syrian government. Though nominally allied with the United States there are no guarantees even with this group, no assurances they won’t shoot first and ask questions later. 

But everything is calm, almost eerily so. No shots fired all morning as they push northwest, towards the dead cities, towards their ultimate destination. It’s not until the heat of the noonday sun is on them and they’re looking for some shade in the ruins of Serjilla, that Quinn hears a whine in the sky, looks up just as a russian-built Syrian MiG fighter jet does a fly by. 

They all look at each other and Quinn reads the controlled panic in their expressions, knows it matches his own. They had gone this direction to avoid any battles between the Syrian army and the opposition rebels. With no rebel bases and few groups of fighters in the area it was supposed to be a clean extraction route. 

Yet now the fighter is coming back for another run. And suddenly there’s signs of life elsewhere, two Technicals - pick up trucks with mounted heavy machine guns - driving towards them across the dusty terrain. 

Quinn looks around at their options, knows they’re good and fucked. Outnumbered and badly outgunned, with a bird in the sky trying to drop bombs on them. Wonders what the fuck could be going on, how they had been located. 

He can see that the Technicals bear the ISIS flag, yet the MiG is clearly Syrian Army. Which can only mean the two enemies are collaborating. So it had likely been a set up all along, Syrian intelligence must have found out they were in the country, about to take out the ISIS guys. But instead of sitting on the info, just letting it happen they had obviously set up a deal. 

Of course killing a bunch of Americans is the only way the two rival sides would ever come together, Quinn thinks to himself. He wonders what Assad’s getting out of this, thinks the government must mean to use ISIS to help get rid of the opposition rebels first before turning on ISIS themselves. 

Then he realizes it doesn’t fucking matter how their position got exposed, that they’re six guys against a fucking fighter jet and two mounted heavy machine guns, a small militia of guys. Thankfully he’s with his team and they are on the same page, know exactly what their chances are, that there is no margin for error. 

Quinn immediately runs for the high position, finds a narrow perch with some covering foliage on top of an old ruin about three stories up. It’s a great sniping spot to take on the ground assault but extremely vulnerable from air attack. Without any better options though, Quinn makes the best of what he’s got, climbs up and gets his weapon ready to cover his team on the ground. 

He watches as the team splits into two, sees Rob pushing the prisoner ahead of him into a mostly solid stone building, sees someone setting up another sniper position. And for a moment the air is still despite the fighter jet somewhere overhead, the armed trucks squealing in. The calm before the storm, a moment out of time. 

Of course she sneaks in again right then, the scenes still so fresh in his mind. Carrie, on the brink of decision in the ops room, about to kill a friend and an enemy. And then draped in blue and dark red, standing on his bomb. And again, dressed all in black, wrapped in his arms. 

These are the last things he should be thinking about with missiles overhead, heavy guns below. Yet as a gust of hot dust blows by Quinn can’t help but recall the searing heat of her intensity, taut on his every nerve. 

He doesn’t want to admit he misses her but it’s a foregone conclusion, impossible to deny. And right now it’s less than a minute til the fire starts to fly, with poor odds on him living out the day. So it may well be the last time he has to think about anything other than pure survival. And if it’s the end then well, he’s glad to have had one last mental moment of her, a second to remember love before death comes crashing down. 

And then, with perfect timing, all hell breaks loose. The fighter jet comes in for another swoop while the heavy machine guns on the back of the trucks lay into the crumbling ruin that Rob is holed up in with the prisoner and one other team member. 

Quinn takes a deep breath, picks off the man operating one of the heavy machine guns, shoots him square in the forehead. It’s on, he thinks, knows his position is now compromised. So now the enemy knows he’s up there and they seem to know where Rob is. Both can now expect to be bombed at by the plane overhead yet they have nowhere to run. 

Quinn puts that thought to the back of his mind, knows he has to use his time to kill as many men on the ground as possible before an air attack takes him out. He breathes in as calmly as he can, shoots the man who’s taken over the machine gun, another one on the truck bed as well. 

The whine of the jet comes again, this time with the telltale whoosh of ordinance being dropped. A bomb hits just beside the building where Rob is holding the prisoner, crushes two walls, leaves a pile of seared rubble in its place. 

Quinn swears to himself, wonders if their team lead is still alive. Thinks there’s a good chance Rob’s fine, that he had ample time to find cover in the ruins for him and their ‘guest’. And they were on the ground, hidden from an air attack. But Quinn’s on top of a very tall ruin, with only a couple twigs of foliage between him and a thousand pound bomb. 

He hears the bomber coming back around for another pass, knows there’s a good chance this time he’s the target but has nowhere to run, no way to get down to the ground before the jet gets there. He can only pray for the best as he tells himself to stay calm, keep shooting until he can’t anymore. 

So Quinn takes a breath, manages to hit another two men on the ground before he hears another bomb get dropped, even closer than the last. 

The explosion engulfs his every sense, pressurized heat blinding and deafening him for a moment before the roar of the blast hits, everything is turned to dust, and suddenly he’s weightless, falling, the stone underneath him crumbling away. 

Quinn hits the rubble hard, immediately rolls out of the way as a huge piece of stone nearly crushes him from above. Manages to avoid the giant flying rock but takes the brunt of a dozen smaller shards piling on top of him, feels the impact of granite on his chest as it crushes him into the debris underneath. 

It’s quiet for a moment as the dust settles and for a second Quinn chokes on his breath, can’t catch another one. Is on the verge of panic, pain and lack of air constricting his chest. Unsure where his weapon is, sure that enemy fighters are moving in as he lies there with his head ringing, his body battered. 

But he’s alive and can feel all his extremities. Even seems to have kept his M4 attached to him. All of which means he needs to get moving, find the rest of his team. 

Quinn tries to push himself up to his knees, finds just enough space within the chunks of rock debris to see some light, a destination. The deep stabbing pain he feels when he breathes tells him there’s something broken in his chest, ribs at least. And he knows better than to assess the rest, knows he needs to get as far on adrenaline as he can. 

He finds just enough space to pull himself along on his arms, painfully snaking his way through patchy spaces in the pile of rubble until he’s halfway out into the open, can see the chaos surrounding him. 

There are bullets flying everywhere, another bomb falling from the sky. Quinn scans the scene, knows he needs to find another high position even if it means incurring more fire from the sky. Sees a possible location a few buildings away, tries to take a deep breath in before blowing his own cover. 

Of course the pain in his chest explodes at the attempt and for a second he sees stars, hunches over to try and let it pass. But there’s no time to be a pussy, his team is clearly in trouble and he may be their only hope. So Quinn grits his teeth and runs for it, firing as he stumbles across the dusty ruins, wondering why his body isn’t responding as it should. 

He takes return fire, heavy rounds that fly through crushed walls. But nothing hits him directly, just feels the pings of stone chips as he runs for the only building left standing. 

Quinn ducks and rolls, knows it will fucking hurt even through the shock and adrenaline. Feels bullets fly by just above him, knows he has a very small time window before the plane comes back, drops another fucking bomb on him. 

He scales the interior walls of the building one-armed, his left side mostly incapacitated from his ribs. Finds a spot on the edge when he gets to the top, wryly thinks to himself at least there’s not as far to fall this time when the bomb hits. 

He uses his new perch to scan the scene, sees one of his teammates lying in a slurry of blood-soaked dust and swears to himself. Down to five guys at most now, likely with other casualties. But Quinn doesn’t have time to absorb the loss, is immediately distracted as he sees Rob pushing their prisoner behind a wall, watches as he fires at a group of men chasing him. Quinn gets on his assault rifle right away, uses his high ground to take out the entire group, manages to shoot them all down just as they are moving in to surround Rob. 

He sees Rob look his way, give him a look of appreciation. But barely has the time to take in their small victory before the fucking MiG is back. And now Quinn knows he’s the target, rolls desperately as the plane flies by, drops yet another bomb. 

He has a split second to make the decision, knows he’s likely to end up breaking something major, live out the end of his life in a heap of pain, a puddle of blood. But it’s better than being obliterated by a bomb so Quinn takes a running leap, jumps from his high position and hopes the ground is softer than it looks. 

He lands in a crouch that turns into a somersault with his forward momentum. And every part of his body is screaming now, but miraculously nothing seems to be broken. Well nothing except for the ribs, and those are a mere inconvenience. 

Quinn pushes his body into motion, stumbles towards Rob’s location even as he feels bullets fly above him. He’s not sure how many of their guys are still alive but knows that none of them are going to survive long. Not with a MiG still in the air, two Technicals still on the ground. 

Finally he manages to crawl behind the same wall he saw Rob push the prisoner behind, watches as Rob shoots down whoever is firing at him. 

“We’re two men down. You alright?” Rob shouts as Quinn shimmies up to him, falls into a heap at the effort. 

“Can’t fucking breathe but that’s about it,” Quinn replies with a wheezy gasp. “We’re fucking dead in the wind man. We need air support.” 

Rob gives him a hard look, shakes his head. 

“No can do, pretty boy,” he states grimly. “No comms, no backup. You know the deal.” 

Quinn feels the panic start to rise in his chest, thinks this is it then, that even if they take out every man on the ground the fucking MiG will kill them all, it was just a matter of time. 

“There are fucking American F-22s a half an hour out!” Quinn states angrily. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Rob fires back. “Take your fucking panties off. You know this is a no-fly zone for any US planes and we aren’t exactly supposed to be here, remember. This is what you fucking signed on for.” 

Quinn grits his teeth, knows that Rob is right, that black ops meant no support, no bail outs if everything goes to shit. And he had always thought he was ready to go out at anytime, that he was a dead man walking from the moment he signed back on to the group. 

But now that the moment is imminent he realizes he’s giving his life for something he no longer believes in, that he’s made the wrong choice for the last time. 

“So we’re all dead then. There’s no way we make it through this terrain with a bird hunting us from above. Not even if we leave our cargo behind,” Quinn fires back, still thinks there has to be a way. 

Rob gives him a glare, a look of disdain. 

“Two years off and you become a fucking crybaby,” he grunts. “You forgot the rules? We die, we die. It’s how this shit works.” 

Quinn takes a breath, looks up to see if death is flying directly overhead yet. Thankfully he can’t even hear the MiG but knows it won’t be long until it’s back. And from the sounds of it, the trucks are moving in on their location too. 

“I’m not dying for this shit,” Quinn mutters, looks around as if he will suddenly see a way out of their situation. But knows this is as bad a spot as they’ve ever been in, that it will take a miracle for any of them to get out alive. 

Rob gives him the look of disgust again. 

“What you think anyone cares we’re here? You know they’re not going to fucking send anything anyways,” he states flatly. “We do what we can, take out what we can along the way.”

Quinn lays his head back, feels weak, nauseous. Pain is starting to creep into his body again now that he’s had a few minutes to let the adrenaline subside but broken ribs and shrapnel wounds are the least of his concerns at the moment.

He knows Rob is right on every level, that this is what they signed on for, that Adal wouldn’t compromise the situation by sending in air support even if he knew where they were. That no one in the CIA or at the Pentagon would allow such obvious support to a supposedly non-existent black ops group deep in enemy terrain. 

But to die on the ground in Syria, for something he no longer gives a fuck about. It’s total bullshit - yet Quinn has to admit it’s a fitting end, what he deserves. 

So he sits, steels himself for a pitched battle, their last stand. And of course Carrie slips back into his mind right then, invades his thoughts as he waits for death. 

He thinks how she’s going to be pissed off at him for dying in Syria on a mean nothing mission. After all his fucking talk of getting out, his increasingly desperate attempts to drag himself away from the endless cycle of death. All that shit he went through in Islamabad, all because he couldn’t let her go - was somehow sure that, by saving her, he would end up saving himself too. 

And he had done the impossible, pulled her back from the edge of a black hole. And then she had done the same, stopped him from giving it all up to exact some revenge. Two fucking miracles really.

But then, when it was all on the line, he ran. Because he thought she’d say no, because he was scared she’d say yes. Because he thought he had a duty to the group. 

But now when it comes down to it he can’t think of anything more pathetic than dying for a job that has already taken his very soul. Would give anything to make the choice again, would fucking fly to Missouri whether she wanted him there or not, would stay and wait, convince her of his need. 

Quinn looks around, sees the Technicals pulling into position, trying to surround them for the final assault. And maybe he’s getting soft but he knows a no win scenario when he sees one. 

He exchanges a knowing look with Rob and they silently acknowledge what’s to come. They hear the fighter jet coming back and understand that they have only a few minutes before they have to make desperate run. 

One more moment before it all comes raining down on them, one last chance to say a silent goodbye. Quinn pictures Carrie getting his letter, wonders if she will even read it, if she will give a shit by then. He thinks she was probably done with him as soon as he took off. Which was fair enough considering he left without a word, never even gave her a chance. 

Bye Carrie, he thinks as whine of the MiG gets louder and the heavy machine guns start firing on their position.

I’m sorry. I really fucked it up this time.


	2. c

It’s dark inside and out, the first rays of dawn still over an hour away. Too early for staffers, analysts, day-care. Thank god for hypomanic sleep deprivation and exasperated older sisters.

Six am EST. Thirteen hundred hours in Aleppo. 

Carrie’s already been there for hours, left a note for Maggie at 3am when she woke to a nightmare then couldn’t sleep, a lingering sense of foreboding left on her mind. Of course it wasn’t anything tangible, just flickers from her dream, one of many that parade through her head as she sleeps. 

Yet this isn’t the first time she’s found herself at Langley in the middle of the night, her mind flashing through images of a sullen soldier, dressed in black and blood, crushed by bombs, pierced through with bullets. Thankfully she’s back in the flow, feels the seemingly endless energy that arises when shit hits the fan, when she sees that intangible thread no one else is looking for. 

Every briefing, every photo, video passes by her eyes. She skims through with maximum efficiency, absorbs the data and fits it into her mental map of the situation. It’s possible she now knows more about the conflicts in Syria and Iraq than the officers in charge of those regions, reads through the night, reviews drone footage daily. 

But so far she’s found nothing conclusive, hasn’t seen anything that disrupts the pattern, hasn’t found him. 

Which isn’t exactly surprising considering he is on a covert mission on the ground thousands of miles away, in a black hole of communication. A needle in the haystack. One single commando in a sea of different militant factions, endless war. 

All she knows is the original mission was in Aleppo, that he is still likely on the ground somewhere in Northern Syria. A sane person would give up, meditate or some shit. Just accept not knowing.

But she can’t. Accept it.

It’s the only reason she’s still there, after all that BS Adal pulled to put Saul back in power, after all the fallout from Islamabad. She needs the resources, the ability to search for what she’s lost. 

And of course Carrie knows she shouldn’t be obsessing about this, that she should just fucking let go. Listen to what he was telling her by leaving, that it was all just a fleeting whim, that he didn’t really want what he asked for. Or that he didn’t want it with her. 

But she can’t let it all happen again. Knows what it took from her the first time, knows that, in a way, it’s what lead her to all this. 

All because she let Brody die, sent him to his death. Had known it was a high risk, low probability mission and pushed him into it anyways. Sacrificed him. 

And it’s not exactly the same with Quinn of course. But she could have stopped him, should have realized what he was asking on that last call. 

But this time she refuses to just let him go. Because now she knows the endless waves of numbing pain and regret, the inability to feel due to a shattered heart. And now it’s just barely started to mend, at least to the point where she recognizes the pain. 

So she has to do this, has been given a second chance of sorts. She can’t let Quinn die because she was too scared; has to at least have the chance to made amends, let him know she still fucking cares about him. 

Carrie sighs, reaches for her coffee, starts to read an analysis of the war in Northern Syria when she hears the ping of an incoming email, looks up and clicks to open. 

It’s just another report from the Damascus office of an ongoing firefight somewhere north of Aleppo. At least one Syrian Air Force MiG involved, so must be a battle between the Syrian Government forces and the rebel alliance in the North, Carrie thinks. 

She clicks on the pictures from a drone that had captured some of the firefight, expects to see a ground war between militants and the Syrian army. But all she sees are two Technicals, about twenty militants on the ground, a MiG overhead dropping bombs but not on the trucks or the militants. 

Carrie peers at the picture, can just make out flags on the trucks. ISIS flags. Which made no sense at all. Because from the looks of things it’s a Syrian MiG working with ISIS heavy machine guns against a third target. But why would Assad’s government work with ISIS, the very group they’re trying to defeat? 

It makes no sense, goes against everything Syria has been standing for this whole time. Unless Assad is using his enemy, the typical case of a mutual enemy creating an unlikely alliance. 

Carrie freezes, her spidey-sense starting to tingle. A small group on the ground just north of Aleppo. On foot, no vehicles, no air support. A mutual enemy of the Syrian government and ISIS. 

It’s a possible hit, she thinks. But she needs to see more footage, make sure. 

Carrie picks up the phone, gets Damascus on the line. She’s greeted with a familiar weary tone on the other end, one that tells her she’s already called a few too many times with seemingly irrational requests. Thankfully Saul had personally explained to the station chief in Damascus that all requests for info from Carrie were to be expressly fulfilled - his one concession to her after selling his soul, breaking her heart. 

“Give me all the footage you have,” she demands. “And send that drone back around, I want a live feed.” 

The voice on the other side exhales in irritation, tells her that there are other areas that need to be covered. 

“Send it back around now,” she responds in her most assertive tone. “Start the feed now, I want to see everything that’s happening.” 

There’s no verbal answer, just an annoyed sigh and then her screen blinks to life with a live feed from the drone. 

“Ok it’s up,” she says sharply. “Call me if anything else unusual happens.” 

Carrie hangs up the line, sees that the drone is making its way back overhead of the action. She goes back to her email, finds a new one with a link to the rest of the drone footage from before.

She starts the video, watches as a Syrian MiG demolishes some old ruins. There is definitely a small team on the ground, all in black, holed up in the ruins of stone buildings. 

Carrie thinks she spots a sniper in a high position, finds herself holding her breath as she watches the MiG make another pass. It could be anyone, US military, an al-Nusra militant, Syrian Free Army. But she knows it’s him, is somehow fucking sure of it. The best shot, taking the high position to protect his team. Without any cover from the air, perched on the edge of a tall stone wall, a long fall to either side. Who the fuck else would it be. 

She watches as the shooter takes out the men on the ground one by one. Rubs the scar on her arm unconsciously as she remembers what a good shot Quinn is. 

And it seems to happen in slow motion, the next pass of the MiG, the bomb that hits the ground next to the tall ruin, the wall crumbling, the black clad figure falling amongst the explosive debris. 

Her heart forgets to beat, her lungs beg for air. For an instant she’s frozen by the image, cannot disentangle her emotions. 

But Carrie shakes herself out of it, tells herself he is fucking resilient, that he will defy the odds. Especially now that she’s found him - just hold on Quinn, she mentally projects at the video, help is on the way. 

*

She runs to Saul’s office, is overwhelmingly grateful to the universe to see him there so early, not even a secretary to get by. Bursts in, trying to catch her breath. 

Saul looks up, calm as usual. Gives her his ‘what’s going on’ look. 

“There’s something going on in Syria. North of Aleppo. Syrian MiG and ISIS heavy guns working together. Shooting at a small team on the ground,” Carrie rattles off, as emphatically as she can. 

Saul sighs. 

“It could be anything, Carrie,” he says tiredly. “It could be al-Nusra, Syrian Free Army, anybody.” 

“But it’s not. I’ve seen the footage. These guys are pros. And I think they’ve got a prisoner,” she continues. “This sounding familiar to you at all?” 

Saul sighs again.

“Carrie, you’ve seen drone footage of unidentifiable paramilitary men in an area full of militant groups. It literally could be anyone. There is no reason to believe that it’s him,” he argues. “You’re looking for a needle in a haystack, one team in an unquantifiable region. I know he meant a lot to you but you have to move on. Let it go.” 

Carrie glares at the man she once knew. Or at least she thought she knew him back then. She’s not so sure now. But she still has to try. 

“Fuck that,” she snaps back. “I won’t. He saved your fucking life once and never got anything but shit for it. And he saved mine too. We both fucking owe him. And it’s him. I know it is. You know how it is, Saul. I’m telling you I know. And if you’ve ever fucking given one measly shit about me then you’ll pull rank and send some fucking air support there now. Or I go to the fucking press, spill my fucking guts about Islamabad, about your fucking deal with the man that killed forty-six Americans. Right now. And don’t tell me it can’t be done. Because you know I’m not fucking leaving until it happens. 

Saul loses the calm for just a moment but she knows then she’s rattled him. He takes a deep breath in. 

“It’s a no fly zone for the coalition,” he argues. “Assad will go nuts over this if a US fighter jet takes out a Syrian MiG.” 

“Or maybe he won’t want the photos of his MiG working with his supposed enemy, ISIS to be leaked,” Carrie counters. “Think about it Saul, what could be so polarizing that Assad would work with his enemy? Not al-Nusra, the FSA. But Americans? On an unsanctioned mission in a war zone, kidnapping a citizen. Now that’s a hell of a lot more likely.” 

“Okay fine, Carrie,” Saul grumbles. “Even if I accept that this is him, what do you think I can do about it? I don’t have the authority to order a strike.” 

“But you have a line to the pentagon, to the president. You can tell them it’s our guys on the ground, that they are sure to die without intervention. That Assad’s working with ISIS on this one, so that MiG is fair game.” she replies. Feels the desperation mount in her chest, the pressure of time ticking. 

Saul looks at her, clearly thinking through what she’s said. And she knows it’s the moment of decision, that lives, maybe Quinn’s life, all came down to the thoughts in Saul’s mind. The mind she thought she knew. 

The seconds flick by, Carrie telling herself not to lose it, to hold it together. 

“Please Saul,” she pleads, feels a desperate tear slip out. “You can’t let him die out there. I fucked up, I need to at least be able to tell him that.” 

And finally Saul nods, picks up the phone. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says grimly. 

*

His first call is to the Pentagon, talks to a General on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, puts it on speaker for Carrie to listen in. 

“Look, I know this is last minute but we need an airstrike, immediately,” Saul says with his usual grave authority. “We have a team on the ground getting taken out by Syrian armed forces.” 

“Saul, you know we don’t have any operations in Syria or a mandate to fire on Syrian Army,” the general replies. “The president would have to authorize this.” 

Saul gives Carrie a significant look, shakes his head a bit at the situation.

“It’s our men on the ground. And it’s Syrian Army collaborating with ISIS so technically we could have the authority to act,” Saul counters. “We need to do this soon though, they won’t last long on the ground there.” 

The general pauses. 

“Syrian Army working with ISIS?” he asks. 

“Yes sir,” Saul replies. “We have proof.”

The general is quiet again for what seems like an eternity. Finally he sighs. 

“You get the okay from the President and I’ll order the strike,” he says.    
Saul agrees to the terms, hangs up the line. Gives Carrie a tired look. 

And part of her wants to soften, to acknowledge that Saul’s coming through for her when she needs it the most. But there’s been too much betrayal between them, too much of the game. And both of them know he’s only doing it for her because she’s willing to throw down all her cards for this one thing. Go all in. 

So she just gives him a cold stare, mentally tells him that time is ticking. 

At least he knows her well enough to read her, sighs one more time as he picks up the phone again.

*

Saul dials the White House, talks to the President’s Chief of Staff McDonough, puts it on speaker phone. Carrie hears Saul go over the details of the situation, that there was clear ISIS involvement, a CIA team on the ground. 

McDonough is skeptical, asks why the president wasn’t informed about this operation before. And Saul has to admit it’s an off the books op, that it’s beyond the scope of their official work in Syria. 

“Are you even sure these are your guys?” McDonough asks, clearly exasperated. 

“I’m sure,” Saul replies, gives Carrie a look that says ‘you better be fucking sure’. 

She just returns it with the same determined stare she’s worn all along, the one that says ‘don’t fuck with me’. 

“So you are saying we have men on the ground being attacked by a Syrian Army MiG and ISIS heavy machine guns?” McDonough says, still sounding disbelieving. 

“Yes, sir,” Saul replies. “Right now. One strike. I have the general ready to go on the President’s okay.” 

“I’ll bring it to the president immediately,” McDonough replies with an irritated sigh. “I’ll get back to you within the hour.” 

The line goes dead before Saul can reply and he hangs up the phone, looks at Carrie with a shrug. 

“They don’t have an hour,” she says, anxiety growing in the pit of her stomach. 

“It’s the best we can do, Carrie,” Saul replies tiredly. “Now will you sit and try and calm down? There’s nothing we can do until the White House calls us back.”

Carrie looks at the chair, knows she can’t possibly just sit and wait. 

“I’m going to get the drone to do another fly by,” she says. “I need to know what’s happening. Call me when the White House calls.” 

*

Carrie stalks back to her office, calls in the request for the drone to go back over the area the battle was taking place in. Watches as the footage comes through, as it nears the still on-going situation. 

It’s nearing night in Syria and the footage is a bit hard to make out but after watching for awhile it seems clear that the attackers have lost track of where Quinn and his group are holed up. The Technicals are searching the ruins methodically at this point, the MiG destroying what’s left of the structures still standing in hopes of exposing or randomly killing any surviving members of Quinn’s group. 

She thinks about him on the ground, imagines him injured, hiding in a crevice, waiting for death to rain down from above. And for a split second she thinks it fucking serves him right, for taking off, running away. 

But of course she can’t let him die out there, alone with his regrets. Even if he is a stubborn bastard, always going it alone. 

Her eyes flick back to the screen, sees a firefight starting as the Technicals approach a half-standing wall, two men making a run for it amidst flashes of heavy machine gun fire. Her heart freezes over when one of the men goes down, struggles to keep running, then takes another hit and falls to the ground. 

She loses track of where the other guy goes, can only think about the dead or soon-to-be-dead man lying on the ground. Watches with her heart in her throat as a guy gets out of the Technical, walks up to the man and finishes him off. 

Carrie tries to tell herself that it’s not him, that Quinn is a survivor. Yet she knows they are all highly capable shooters, the best of black ops. And the dead man on the ground is one of them, someone’s brother, someone’s son, someone’s husband. 

She’s trying hard not to cry as she watches the firefight continue, wonders what the hell is taking so long with the fucking president. From what she can see the fight isn’t going to last much longer. 

And just then her phone rings, Carrie picks it up already half in a panic, wondering what the fuck she’s going to do if the answer is no. 

But then she hears Saul’s soothing tenor say “it’s a go” and the panic is immediately replaced with another surge of instant adrenaline, a little spray of hope. 

*

Carrie runs back into Saul’s office as he’s dialing the Pentagon, hears him ask to speak to the General.

The general picks up the line, tells Saul he is on speaker with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. 

“I hear you got presidential approval,” the general says, clearly a bit surprised. “That was quick.” 

“This situation calls for immediate action, general,” Saul replies. “And clearly the President agreed.” 

“Well we have a F-22 on the runway awaiting coordinates,” the general says. 

“Okay then, I’m handing you over for them right now,” Saul says with a nod as he hands the phone to Carrie.

Carrie picks up the phone, gives the general crisp and exact coordinates.

“35.67 degrees North, 36.57 degrees East,” she says. “One MiG, two Technicals. Should be easy work for a F-22.” 

She hears the General pass on the information, then he gets back on the line, asks if there’s any final instructions before they launch the fighter.

Carrie’s just about to say ‘no, launch the fucking plane now,’ when she stops to think, realizes there’s an opportunity at hand. 

“Actually, there is just one more thing, general,” she says.


	3. q.ii

It’s starting to get dark which is both good and bad. Harder for the Technicals to find them until the flashes of gunfire start and then they are basically sitting ducks for the MiG overhead. 

Quinn’s huddled behind one of the few walls still standing, trying not to breathe or bleed too much. He can hear heavy machine gun fire nearby, wonders how many of the team are left, knows he saw someone go down earlier, thinks it’s unlikely any of them are going to survive for much longer. Not with the MiG overhead taking out the ruins systematically, leaving them with no cover, out in the open with serious weaponry aimed their way. 

It’s been about three hours since the attack began and he’s starting to run low on adrenaline, feels the shock setting in from loss of blood, the shards of shrapnel still embedded in him. 

Quinn forces himself to take slow even breaths, ignore the pulses of pain as he reassesses the situation - takes a look to see where the Technicals are, estimates how long until the MiG is back. He’s starting to shiver even though the air is still warm, feels more blood leak through his pants, seep through his shirt. It’s not going to be long now, he thinks. Wonders if he can buy Rob enough time and space to get the prisoner far enough away to survive the night. 

The last he’d seen of Rob was just after their argument about calling for air support. The Technicals had converged on them and they had run in different directions, Quinn trying to pull their attackers his way, give Rob a chance to find some cover for him and the prisoner. 

Running for his life, bullets whizzing all around, Quinn had just about made it to some cover behind a small standing wall when something had lit his hip on fire, sent him sprawling face first into the dusty ground. 

He had scrambled on his hands and knees until he was behind the wall, sure that the end was near, that heavy machine guns were about to tear through his only cover. But just as the first barrage of fire came at the wall and he started to run again, through the pain and weakness in his leg, Quinn had realized that the truck chasing him had turned and was trying to locate another member of their group, someone who had found a sniper position and taken out two more of their attackers. 

Knowing he only had a moment’s reprieve Quinn had taken the opportunity to scramble into a semi-demolished ruin, pushing himself through the haze of pain in a pathetic half running, half crawling stumble. 

That had been about an hour ago. And since then he’s just been sitting there, grinding his teeth and wondering how death will finally come for him, thinking about the futility of their mission. 

This is what you get for running, he tells himself between shallow breaths, pulsating pain. This is how a coward dies. 

The sound of shooting intensifies again and Quinn peeks out from his spot, sees Rob and their prisoner on the move, running his way. And even though it’s ultimately pointless, he automatically turns and starts firing his M-4 rifle at the shooters, tries to create some covering fire for Rob.

By some miracle Rob makes it with the prisoner and they both huddle with him, gasping for air amongst the rubble. But now they are basically sitting ducks, an easy target for both the heavily armed trucks on the ground as well as the MiG in the air. 

“You look like shit,” Rob grunts once he regains his breath. “What’s the sitrep?” 

Quinn looks at his team leader, feels a cold resentment wash over him. It may not be Rob’s fault that they’re going to die here, that they had shitty orders and no backup. But sitting there with a bullet hole in his leg and his ribs crushed to shit, Quinn wants someone to blame, doesn’t want to die knowing it’s his own goddamned fault. 

“Two down as far as I can tell but I couldn’t see who. I took a ricochet to the hip, fucking shrapnel everywhere. Broken ribs,” Quinn mutters. “They’ve left a lot of casualties too, but as long as they have a driver and a gunner for each truck we’re basically fucked. 

Rob grimaces, nods his agreement. 

“Me and the cargo are both alright,” he replies. “I think it’s Johnson and Matthews that are down. And I haven’t seen Andy since the MiG went by the second time so he’s probably down too. I think JC’s up high still.” 

So it’s possibly just three of them left, plus their prisoner. 

And not for long, Quinn thinks as he hears the MiG coming in for another run, sees that the Technicals are moving towards them. Their location is blown and they’re extremely outgunned. 

“So what now?” he grunts, knows that there’s nothing tactical left for them to do other than a suicide run to take out as many as they can before the MiG drops a missile on them. 

“Last stand,” Rob replies grimly. 

Quinn takes a breath, knows Rob’s right. They have about five minutes, ten tops. 

He gives himself a single minute to absorb all his regrets, all the self-hate. Because it no longer matters that he tried to do good, that he wants to get out, that he finally found someone to care about. He’s as pathetic as he always was, unable to face himself, incapable of ever atoning for his deficiencies.

And then he allows himself a moment to remember her, pictures her all afire, pissed off and determined. Feisty, unrelenting. 

But also so completely open, genuine. Damaged, broken, but never defeated. 

Quinn manages a final smile at the thought, knows that no matter what she will survive, persevere. And at least they had one day, he thinks. After all the bullshit, all the strife. 

Then, knowing they have just a minute or two left, he looks at Rob and nods. Rob nods back and starts a silent countdown, gives them their last three two one. 

Quinn’s on his tiptoes, ignoring the internal screaming of his physical body, the torn flesh, crushed bones. One last offensive, a final run. 

It’s then that he hears it, the sonic whine of a second aircraft approaching. Instantly he wonders why they sent another MiG when the job was almost done, sees the same confusion in Rob’s expression. It delays their last ditch effort as they look at each other, silently ask what the hell is going on. 

And then before they are able to react, suddenly the second plane is almost overhead, nearly in position to bomb them to oblivion. 

Quinn looks up to face his own imminent destruction, then thinks he must be hallucinating. 

Because the plane overhead is clearly not another MiG. In fact, it looks like an US Air Force F-22 and for a moment Quinn wonders how the hell the Syrian army got ahold of a fucking US fighter jet. 

But then he watches the F-22 release one of its missiles, sees the approaching Syrian MiG explode into a million fiery pieces. Looks at Rob to confirm what he’s seeing, that he hasn’t started tripping out due to loss of blood. 

Rob looks equally baffled as they watch the F-22 do a loop, then fly by again, dropping more ordinance on the two Technicals, instantly obliterating both trucks and all occupants. 

And then suddenly everything’s quiet for a moment, his hearing muffled from the explosions, the F-22 flying away from the scene, all their enemies seemingly dead. 

Quinn takes a minute to regain his composure, accept the fact that he’s not dead, that a miracle just fell out of the sky. He looks at Rob who just gives him a shrug and a shake of his head. Because they both know there is no way to explain what just happened, no reason an American F-22 should be in this region, much less firing at a Syrian MiG. It was why they couldn’t call for back up in the first place, why there was no help to be had. 

Rob leaves the prisoner with Quinn, heads over to the destroyed Technicals to see if any of their assailants are still alive. Quinn covers his team leader from his location, tries to spot any left over attackers who may have avoided the F-22’s bombs. 

But all is quiet and Rob confirms that all enemy soldiers are dead. Quinn breathes a sigh of relief and leans back against the stone wall, suddenly dead tired. Takes a few seconds to find his last reserves of energy, then does his best to try and get to his feet. 

It takes him a couple of tries, along with the help of the wall but he manages to stay upright and struggle out towards Rob, pushing the prisoner ahead of him.

As Quinn walks out he sees another two black clad men also making their way across the ruins towards the blackened carcasses of the destroyed trucks. He’s both shocked and relieved that four of them have made it, that they only lost two men in a no-win scenario. 

They congregate near Rob, give each other silent one-armed embraces. The two others are Andy, the one they thought they’d lost, and JC, the team medic. They spend a moment asking each other what the fuck happened, have another moment of silence for their fallen brothers. 

And then suddenly they all startle at the sound of another jet, look up to see the F-22 returning. There’s no time to run, look for cover so they can only hope the plane isn’t coming back to finish them off, that it wasn’t some sort of accident that it destroyed their enemies and not them on the first go around. 

Quinn looks up, watches the F-22 fly overhead, sees it detach some sort of ordinance. Thinks to himself that it serves him right, that he doesn’t deserve to survive this situation. 

He watches the bomb fall, thinks about how something so small can cause so much damage. And it’s not until it hits the ground, bounces to a stop that he realizes it’s not a bomb, isn’t even made of metal. 

They all look at each other, the confusion growing in everyone’s eyes, including their prisoner. Quinn tries to come up with any explanation for what’s just happened, goes through every possibility as they walk over towards whatever just fell from the F-22. 

Quinn is still struggling over as he sees Rob get to the object, circle it warily. But it’s obviously not any regular ordinance, actually looks to be a parachute pack. And of course there could still be a bomb of some sort in the pack but it seems highly unlikely considering the plane could have dropped one of it’s actual bombs instead. 

Still Rob approaches the bag very carefully, prods it with his weapon before kneeling down to open it. And they all watch nervously as he slices the package open, starts removing its contents. 

First he pulls out a stack of MREs, then boxes and boxes of medical supplies, ammo, all sorts of useful shit. Lays it all out at their feet, a care package from the gods. 

Quinn is gaping at the supplies, still a bit wary regardless of how much they require everything just thrown down to them. The ammo is exactly what they need, the right type for their weapons. And all of the supplies are clearly courtesy of the US Armed Forces. But it is beyond strange for the Air Force to have attacked a Syrian MiG, and absolutely impossible for anyone to even know their location, much less know that they were in trouble. Even if Adal had known where they were and that they were fucked he wouldn’t have intervened, gone to that much trouble. 

Nothing this lucky could possibly happen by chance. Which is why he’s still suspicious, thinks there may be some sort of trap in all this. 

Quinn’s still sorting through possibilities when Rob gets to the bottom of the pack, pulls out one last thing. 

“What’s that?” asks Andy. 

It turns out to be an envelope and Rob slits it open, pulls out a piece of paper, reads it to himself. 

“Well? What does it say?” Andy asks again as they all look at Rob in tense anticipation.

Rob finishes reading the note, turns and gives Quinn an undefinable look. 

“It’s for you,” he says. “From your girlfriend.” 

Through the increasing haze of pain and shock Quinn wonders what the hell Rob is talking about, if it’s his idea of a joke. But Rob’s wearing a serious-looking expression, just a hint of bewilderment showing through the crease in his forehead. And Quinn’s still trying to figure out what’s going on when Rob looks back down at the piece of paper, starts to read out loud. 

“You’re welcome Q. You should be dead. Think about that next time you run off without a fucking goodbye. And if you’re not there to get this, well, just know I’m fucking pissed off at you and I’m going to be sad as shit when I find out. So please. Be alive and fine so I can personally kick your ass when you get home.” 

Rob’s halfway through the note when Quinn snaps out of it, realizes what’s going on. Reaches for the paper but stumbles and nearly falls on his face as Rob backs up, keeps reading. 

When he finishes Rob looks up, gives Quinn an expression that clearly asks ‘what the fuck?’. And he’s not the only one looking totally shocked, confused. Quinn reaches for the note again, reads it for himself. 

It’s typed and unsigned but there’s no question who dictated the words. And it’s only then that comprehension starts to really settle in. 

There was absolutely no way she could have known where they were. Not even Adal knew their location or their direction of travel, much less their exact coordinates. And then to somehow send a F-22 to take out the Syrian MiG? Quinn knows it would have required serious conversations with the Pentagon, not to mention presidential approval.

All within the span of a couple of hours. From half a world away. 

It was impossible as far as he could tell. 

But then again she is full of impossibilities, he’s seen her do things that are beyond comprehension, almost inconceivable.

Quinn bites his lip, reads the letter again, hears it in Carrie’s voice. Can’t help but let a grin escape at the harshness of her tone, how pissed off she still is. 

And it’s only then that he realizes all the guys are staring at him, waiting for an explanation. And all Quinn can do is shrug, give a ghost of a smile. 

“What the fuck just happened man?” Andy asks. “Who the fuck is this chick? How the hell could she know we were out here?” 

Of course he has no idea either, can’t come up with any way to explain how Carrie could know where they were, much less set up an air strike in forbidden territory. 

Even if she was watching ever drone over Syria, how could she have known that it was them? Six guys dressed in black. In the middle of a war-torn country, in an area with dozens of battles going on daily. 

Quinn looks at the guys, his team. Mostly alive despite ridiculous odds. Thinks how he’s never been so thankful in his life. 

But all he can do is shake his head, because there’s no explaining the capacity of Carrie Mathison. The shit she is sometimes able to pull off. 

“I don’t know how she did it,” he finally says. “She’s just... something else.” 

Now the guys are all giving him a certain look and Quinn knows he isn’t going to get out of it, not even with a bullet hole in his leg, something cracked in his torso. Grimaces and braces himself for what’s coming. 

“Something else, eh?” Rob starts. “More like unfuckingbelievable. So what’s in it for her?” 

Quinn knows better than to respond, just gives Rob a stony stare. 

“Yeah asshole, when we heard you were ditching for a chick, we thought you really fucking lost it,” Andy chimes in. “But this one’s got some fucking voodoo. Finding us in the middle of a fucking war zone? Almost catching this douchebag after how long going solo?” 

Quinn frowns, hopes they don’t carry on too long. Because there’s no way he’s going to talk about Carrie with them, try to explain what she means to him, their fucked up relationship. It’s hard enough to think about and not at all the kind of shit he talks to the guys about. 

“Better watch out Quinn,” Rob adds. “This one seems to have fucking hellfire up her ass. Must be a real ball breaker. That why you left?” 

He thinks to himself, no I left because it’s what I do, because I can’t ever have what I think I want. Because I thought it was only fair to let her go, not to pull her down with me. 

But clearly she hasn’t let go of him yet, didn’t just give up when he up and ran. Which is surprising in so many ways to him. Because he’d been sure it was just a momentary thing for her, caught up in the emotions of her father’s death, their mutual PTSD of Islamabad. 

So what does it mean that she’s still looking for him, still gives a shit about him making it back? It’s not something he should even be thinking about, not if he’s going to get out of Syria alive. 

The only thing that’s clear to him is that he isn’t going to say any of those things to the boys, isn’t willing to discuss Carrie at all. 

“Fuck right off, asshole,” Quinn finally says. “She just saved all of our lives. So show some fucking respect.” 

Rob grins at his response, must know he’s hit a nerve. And both Andy and JC smirk as well but Quinn refuses to rise to the bait, can barely deal with himself after everything that’s just happened. 

So he just gives them all a stony stare, hobbles up to grab a bag of medical supplies. 

“Time to move out,” Quinn mutters. “Unless we’re just going to stand around until they come back to finish the job.” 

*

Quinn struggles through the early evening, his body seizing up even while dosed up on the strongest painkillers he can find in the bag. The group moves at a relatively leisurely pace, not one they can really afford but all that he can manage at the moment. 

Finally after hours of walking they find an abandoned hut, only half destroyed and with enough of a roof to give them some cover for the night. 

Quinn stumbles through the doorway, collapses into a corner with his gear. Drinks some water, slams back some more painkillers. Tries not to pass out while the pills are kicking in. 

JC the medic comes over to try and offer his assistance but Quinn tells him to fuck off. After all this shit the last thing he needs is to show his buddies his bloody ass. 

And he needs time to assess alone, to adjust his mental outlook accordingly. Because, if it’s bad, he’s not going to be the one to bog down the guys, get them all killed. 

So he huddles by himself in the corner, creates a semblance of privacy with a low wall of gear. Struggles to take off his pants, can see right away that the pressure bandage he’d wrapped around the wound earlier is already soaked through. 

And it’d hard enough to try and clean it out, staunch the blood if he wasn’t fucking light-headed, if he could get a decent breath in. But Quinn’s determined to do what he can, pulls the bloody bandage off, tries to apply enough pressure to avoid spurting blood on his little patch of dirt floor. 

It’s more painful than he anticipated, feels a heaving in his stomach as he pushes against the wound. Involuntarily gasps with the application of pressure, sees a few stars as he reaches for a fresh cloth bandage. 

But it’s nothing he can’t take, exactly what he’s been trained for. So Quinn sucks in a shaky breath, tries to pull the new bandage on as tight as possible. And for a minute he thinks he’s got through it, then yanks too hard at the wrap and instantly feels queasy, starts to dry heave. 

Which just makes everything a million times worse, especially the crushing pain in his chest. And Quinn’s really seeing stars now, leans back to lay against the wall, feels the cold sweat starting to seep through. 

He sits like that for a long time, vaguely hears the guys checking themselves over, prepping the perimeter of their little hut. The fucking bandage is still only barely on but Quinn’s suddenly completely drained, can’t manage to do anything but sit slumped over and breathe laboriously. 

And then he must have passed out for a moment because he comes to with a holler of pain as JC pulls the new bandage on good and tight, reduces his leg to a mass of screaming nerves. 

“How’s it look?” Quinn grunts. Thinks how he doesn’t really want to know but has to ask. 

JC gives him a serious look, tilts his head noncommittally. 

“Well it ain’t pretty,” he replies quietly. “The bullet went through clean but made a pretty big hole on its way out. You’ve lost a shit tonne of blood though and I don’t think it’s all from there because you’re a lucky bastard and it didn’t hit the femoral. So let’s take a look at the rest of you, pretty boy.” 

Quinn groans, knows he’s lost the upper hand. Struggles out of his shirt, hears JC swear. Which is not a good sign. 

“Shit, man,” JC says. “I think we found where you’re losing all that blood.”

Quinn looks down at his torso, sees what JC’s talking about right away. Something sharp has ripped a chunk right out of his left side, left a gaping wound of bloody flesh. Which finally explained why his shirt had been so sticky, why the pain in his ribs had been so fucking unrelenting.

“All good,” Quinn mutters. “Just do what you can.” 

So JC wraps him up as best he can, Quinn struggling not to yell out, desperately grinding his teeth as the medic pulls yet another cloth bandage tight around his chest. 

And he can tell that JC wants to say something, comment on the seriousness of his injuries. But Quinn’s already decided that he’s going to make it though this one alive, that he can’t waste the gift Carrie’s given him. 

“I’ll be good by morning,” Quinn states, even though they both know it’s bullshit. 

But JC doesn’t disagree, just gives him a dubious look, hands him a bottle of antibiotics, another of painkillers. Quinn slams back a handful of pills then lays back against the wall, rests his head against the coolness of the stone. 

He can’t lie down comfortably, finds it hard to breathe in almost any position. But even so Quinn feels unconsciousness start to creep in, is halfway to darkness as he thinks how his days slinking around Syria are numbered, that he really has to get home. 

* 

He wakes in a cold sweat to fire in his body, searing pain spread throughout. It isn’t cold out but Quinn’s shivering, shaking so hard it’s a struggle to open the pill bottle, swallow triple the recommended amount.

All energy spent on that small task, Quinn slumps back against the wall again, closes his eyes. And like usual, she pushes right into his mind, irate and scowling, blonde steeped in anger. 

He doesn’t know what it means that she’s bothered to save him, that she’s still hanging on. He’d been sure that she’d cut the cord as soon as he was gone, picked up and gotten on with her life. Because it had all been too unlikely, impossible really. To get out, to take her with him. 

As much as he wanted it, as much as it was his only chance. It was the one thing he could never let himself have.

Especially after Islamabad, after failing to save Fara, then letting Haqqani go. 

He almost let her save him. But there was penance to pay, the fear of failure. 

So here he was, footing the bill in a couple of pounds of burning flesh. 

It had been easier when he thought she was done with him; after convincing himself he had finally cut the string tying them together. 

He had been a ghost for so long. And then she had to come along and tie him to the real world, to the messiness of emotions.

Quinn sighs, grimaces as air moves through his lungs, presses up against his broken rib cage. But he has no sympathy for himself, for his own pain. Knows she wouldn’t either, would likely kick him while he’s down, berate him for his idiocy, his stubbornness. 

And he knows he has to make it now, that he’s fucked for eternity otherwise. Because he’d never forgive himself for fucking it up, dying alone in Syria after she pulled off the impossible - found him, saved him, made him care. 

Quinn feels the painkillers start to kick in, create a layer of numbness overtop of the pain. Almost enough to release some of the tenseness, let sleep move in. 

Yet an hour later he still finds himself sitting there awake, thinking about Carrie. Wonders how pissed she is at him, why she’s even bothering to try. Imagines her lying awake, wondering if he’s dead.

Alone with his thoughts, surrounded by the snores of his exhausted buddies, Quinn slips in and out of consciousness, sees blonde and fire, hears mortars and aircraft.

Snaps back to reality, the dark ruins of a hut, the sound of a drone overhead. 

And it gives him a thought, maybe a way to ease some sleepless nights. 

Quinn rolls the idea over in his head, thinks it might actually work. Reaches over for what’s left of his go kit, pulls out what he needs. Then painfully pushes himself to his feet, leaning into the wall for support. 

He pauses to take a few shallow breaths, tries not to think how shitty the rest of the trek is going to be for him. Grits his teeth and shuffles out the door as quietly as he can.

The sky is just starting it’s transition towards dawn, a subtle lightening of the absolute dark. Quinn gasps as the night air hits his lungs, crisp against his injured ribs. 

It won’t be long until the others are up so Quinn sets to his mission, struggles his way through the task. It takes four times as long as it should and Quinn’s sweaty and weak by the time he sets up the last connection but in the end he’s satisfied with the result. 

Quinn looks up as he’s done, sees the first hint of morning light. And it hits him all again - that they cheated certain death, that he has another chance. All because of one fucking stubborn blonde thousands of miles away. 

And, for once, thinking about her makes him smile instead of grimace, feel lighter instead of heavier. Carrie fucking Mathison. His own manic guardian angel. 

Quinn smirks at the thought but is surprised at what a relief it is. To know that she’s still on his side, that she cares enough to look out for him. 

And now he owes her his life yet again, has to at least try to offer something back. In case he doesn’t make it, dies along the way, full of regrets. 

Quinn reinspects his handiwork, thinks it’s the best he can do with what he’s got. Hits the timer just as he hears the faint call of a faraway muezzin, calling the faithful to pray.


	4. c.ii

Carrie paces her office, her head flying through possibilities. The general had given her confirmation that the Syrian MiG had been taken out, that the Technicals on the ground had been destroyed as well. And by all appearances, the package she had asked for had been picked up. 

Which was a good thing. Probably. 

But had been dark by the time the drone flew by twenty minutes after the F-22 had left the scene, so all it had been able to register was a few sparsely spread out heat sources on its infrared sensors. So it could have been Quinn’s group or any other survivors of the battle, possibly ISIS militants. 

The impossible part is not knowing, giving into the fact that she can’t figure something out. Damascus isn’t going to keep letting her use the drones to cover such a small area of concern, especially not for some covert op going on right under their own noses. And Carrie’s not exactly used to being in the dark, unable to access the information she desperately desires. 

But she’s bullied them into this one night of drone use, so she can look for him while she still knows his general vicinity. Not that she has any idea which direction they went or if they even survived the original battle with the MiG. 

Carrie sighs, tells herself not to feel guilty, that she got the fucking F-22 there as fast as she could. But it’s hard when she’s facing the facts - a small team on the ground being bombarded for hours by a MiG and mounted heavy machine guns. If it was anyone else but Quinn she would have already written them off completely. 

It’s the nagging feeling that she should be doing more, even though she knows she’s done all that she possibly can, more than could be expected. Combined with the constant rising fear that she was too late, that she had watched as he died falling thirty feet, crushed by rubble. 

It had been the only time she was sure it was him she was watching. And then an instant later the wall he was on had been obliterated by the MiG, crushing everything in its path. 

Carrie takes a breath, barely holds back the rising emotion she’s been battling all day. She feels tears forming and angrily forces them back, tells herself she can’t fall apart yet. If he’s on the ground and still alive she needs to be at her best, sharp and in control. 

In a way he taught her that, she realizes. Holding her back whenever her emotions were making the decisions, keeping her in check even when she’d almost lost it completely. Regardless of the consequences, even though she had been so pissed off at him she could have shot him herself. 

Carrie’s never sure whether to smile or swear when she remembers those moments in Islamabad, spitting mad at each other, on the edge of mutual annihilation. She knows he must have wondered why the hell she asked him to go back there with her if she was just going to fight with him every step of the way. She’s not sure if he realized it was all, in a way, part of her plan. 

She had needed someone she trusted, someone who wouldn’t let her down no matter how bad things got. Someone willing to make the hard choices, someone who would never back down. 

And he’d been everything she needed. So of course she’d fought it tooth and nail, been epically pissed off at him the whole time. Even though she’d set the whole thing up herself, put Quinn up to playing his part. 

Mentally exhausted from regrets and fear, Carrie finally sits down as she waits for the drone to loop back around to the area she’s scouring. Fighting back another spate of tears she bites her lip, tells herself she can’t give up. That he’s still out there, that he can still make it back. 

She’s still trying to convince herself that he’s alive when she hears approaching footsteps, looks up to see who’s approaching, braces herself for an onslaught of bullshit. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dar Adal fumes as he enters her office. “What gives you the right to interfere with my operation?” 

The contempt she feels for Adal at this moment is almost too much to bear. Ever since their argument at his house she can’t look at the man without thinking about him making a deal with Haqqani. And then turning Saul into a fucking monster as well, convincing him to make a deal with the devil, dishonouring everything that had happened in Islamabad.

Working with scum like Adal is a constant reminder that she’s chosen to live in an immoral web of death and deceit, that she’s already lost her soul, given up her humanity. It’s almost enough to get her out of the game, make her look at the hard choices coming up in her near future. 

But for now she has to stay. Just until she can get Quinn out too - or at least give him the chance. 

“I just fucking saved your operation,” she snaps right back. “I saved their fucking lives.” 

Adal sneers, gives her a contemptuous look.   
 “You saved nothing. And pissed off a fucking dictator, an entire army,” he snarls. “For what? You two and your fucking mutual destruction. Peter is smart, Carrie. He left for a reason. He was never yours. And he will always leave.”

“You don’t know how many people I am willing to piss off to fucking save his life. I don’t care if he doesn’t fucking want it, I don’t care if he never speaks to me again,” Carrie fires back. “I will get him out of Syria alive so he can make his own fucking choice on what comes next.” 

Adal sighs, glares at her. 

“Why, Carrie,” he asks tiredly. “Why the fuck would you go to this much effort to save him from his own fate? He doesn’t fucking love you. Peter’s like you - he doesn’t know how.” 

Carrie stops and thinks. Realizes she knows that’s the truth, that they are each flawed in that way. And it’s not that she has some fantasy of a life together with Quinn, civilian jobs, a house with a yard. She knows it may all blow up in her face, that he may be pissed off at her for interfering in his life, holding onto something that was never really there. 

If she had even done anything at all, if she wasn’t too late. 

Yet it doesn’t matter, mainly because she’s set her mind to this. She may not be responsible for whatever Quinn does in the future but Carrie knows she bears some blame for him being in Syria. And she spent so much energy trying to save the asshole in the first place, it now seems necessary to help keep him alive. 

Because really it all came down to one thing. She sent Brody on the mission that killed him and it was almost more than she could bear. For it to happen again with Quinn... 

She already knew it would be too much. 

“Because he deserves a chance,” she finally says. “I owe him at least that much.” 

Adal scoffs at her, gives her his knowing sneer. 

“By your own account you saw him fall thirty feet in a bombing. If that didn’t kill him, it would certainly have slowed him down,” he says. “And weakness doesn’t survive in war.” 

“You think he’s dead,” Carrie states flatly, rolls the idea coldly around in her mind.

Adal doesn’t answer right away, just gives her a smug look. 

“Let’s just say he’s gotten weak,” he finally says, his accusation tense in the air. 

“He’s not dead,” Carrie replies, tries to sound completely sure. 

Adal sneers again. 

“And how do you know that?” he asks sarcastically. “And don’t give me some sentimental bullshit about being able to feel it if he was dead. I don’t go in for that shit. Anyone can die out there, and, in the end, most of them will.” 

It takes all her fucking willpower not to just go over and kick Adal in the balls. Acting so smug about it all, the fact that Quinn was on the ground, likely injured, possibly dead. 

“Fuck you, Adal,” she snaps back. “Quinn is a survivor. You know how resilient he is.” 

“Until lately he’s never had a single problem, not a mark on his dossier. And then he met you,” Adal returns. “Since then he’s a fucking liability, almost as bad as you.”

Carrie grits her teeth, pulls back the urge to scream in Adal’s face. 

“Did you ever think you just picked the wrong guy?” she asks. “You fucked up, chose someone who doesn’t want to kill people for the rest of his fucking life?”

Adal sighs, looks at her tiredly. 

“He’s got a funny way of showing it,” he says. “It’s over, Carrie. He’s gone. Even if he isn’t dead now, the mission is ongoing and he will go with his team. He is not thinking of you, he is not thinking about anything other than completing the job. Like he always has, like he always will. I don’t fuck up. Not when it comes to this.”

She wants to throw something at him, nail him right in the smug kisser with a paperweight. Even looks down at her desk, casually looking for a decent projectile.

It’s then that she notices something on her computer screen, sees that the drone is back flying over her search area. It’s still too far away to tell what the object is but it’s lit up in infrared, which is odd in itself. 

Carrie looks up to see if Adal’s noticed what’s going on. And he’s still wearing the same self-satisfied sneer but also maneuvers his way over to take a look at her screen. 

The drone flies towards the odd light and soon it’s directly overhead of whatever it is. From her office thousands of miles away it looks like a circle made of infrared light, maybe to mark a landing area for a helicopter, for some sort of pre-dawn attack. 

But it didn’t make much sense because there didn’t appear to be anything of value in the area, just some small huts, sparsely located, likely uninhabited since the turmoil in Syria began. 

And the infrared sensor on the drone wasn’t reading much life nearby, certainly nothing indicating a military maneuver. 

“Helicopter landing,” Adal says casually. 

Carrie snorts, knows he’s bullshitting. 

“For what helicopter? For what reason? There’s nothing there,” she says. 

She knows she’s right and Adal must know it too, scowls at her comment irritably.

“Well what do you think it is then?” he asks sarcastically. 

And Carrie has to admit he’s got her there, that she has no idea what the strange circle could signify, what purpose it could possibly serve. 

Whatever it is emits a steady infrared light, which indicates military technology is involved. And it’s obviously a signal, meant to be read by some sort of aircraft. But there is no aircraft nearby, except for their drone. 

The drone flies by again and Carrie focuses on the image, freezes it on the screen. 

Studies it closely, notices it’s not exactly just a circle, that the circle has an extension. 

And maybe she’s reading into things too deeply, seeing things she wants to see. But the gears start turning in her head, still trying to connect the dots at the end of a marathon day. 

A circle of infrared light, exactly what a black ops team would use to signal for a nighttime helicopter landing. Military grade flares, possibly set on a timer considering there didn’t seem to be anyone left in the area to have manually set it off. A landing zone for a non-existent helicopter though. A circle of light directing no one, seemingly placed there for no military reason.

But it could be a signal to their drone. 

And the more she looks at it, the more it’s not a circle. 

Adal’s starting to look at her funny, must feel her energy rising. She can sense it too, the buzz of comprehension, the feeling of everything falling into place. 

Carrie takes a screen shot of the drone footage, then pulls up another file, footage of the same area shot a few hours earlier by the same drone. Waits until the drone is in the same position, freezes the video and looks at Adal in triumph. 

“This is four hours ago. Five heat signatures. Four of yours and their prisoner,” she says with just a hint of self-satisfaction. 

Adal sneers, doesn’t look convinced. 

“That could be anyone, Carrie,” he says. “Probably fucking refugees fleeing to Turkey.” 

“In the exact same location as this light? So they just happened to be refugees with infrared flares?” she counters. 

“Who knows why whoever it was set out a infrared circle. Maybe the mission was aborted. Maybe it’s all just a big fucking practical joke,” Adal replies. 

“And maybe that isn’t a circle. In fact, I’d say it’s clearly a letter,” Carrie retorts with a smirk. 

For once Adal looks slightly rattled, glances at her irritably before taking another look at the two screenshots, four hours apart. 

The first shows five human sized heat sources, likely inside a circular stone hut. 

The second is the same hut. Clearly encircled in a large infrared letter Q.

And now Carrie’s the one wearing a smug grin, giving Adal a condescending look. 

“Well you did do a good job training him,” she states. “He is fucking resourceful when he needs to be.” 

Adal doesn’t even bother to argue that it’s not Quinn, just snarls and starts to walk out of her office. 

“Oh come on, stay and tell me again how he’s dead, how the mission is the only thing he’s thinking about,” Carrie says loudly to his back, feels her anger mix with disbelief, happiness, relief. 

Adal keeps walking, leaves her alone in her office, slouched in her desk chair staring at the freeze frames on her screen. 

She stares at the image of five heat sources, wonders which glowing blob is Quinn. Imagines him huddled in a stone hut, injured and exhausted. 

And really she has to admit she thought Adal was right, that wherever Quinn was he was not thinking about home, not thinking about her. This obligation she feels towards him has less to do with a future together with Quinn, more to do with not losing him too. Not after all that she’s lost.

There had been all the naysayers, mostly Saul and Adal. Telling her to let go, give up. To let Quinn be, let him run around risking his life for something he doesn’t give a shit about anymore. To forget about him, move on like he has. 

And it may not be much, his little gesture of acknowledgement. She did save their lives, pulled every string as quickly as she could. But it proved he was alive, had thought of her. Had even put in the effort to send her a signal from the ruins of Syria, a small something to let her know he appreciated her work, was thinking of her. 

Carrie leans back in her chair, closes her eyes and feels a slow smile spread across her face. 

It may only be round one but at least she won this one, saw the proof in Adal’s pissed off expression as he left earlier. And for now it’s enough to lighten the lead ball in her stomach, unclench her shoulders. 

Because somewhere in Syria Quinn still has a chance, has yet to be lost in the wreckage of war. And that means she still has a chance too - to make up for the mistakes of her past, to make good on the debt she still owes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter of Part I, stay tuned for Part II...


	5. q.iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Syrian saga continues! please forgive any inaccuracies with details of the levantine war/syrian army, pulling out the artistic license for any factual fails.

Syria in Black. Part II

He’s been fucking hobbling for almost a week now, leaning on a makeshift cane when possible, subsisting on painkillers and antibiotics that have eaten his guts and dulled his mind. 

They should have been across the border by now, the distance negligible. Yet the entire countryside is still a war zone, the Syrian Army on one side, rebel coalitions on the other. So movement is slow, limited to nighttime hours, often requiring long detours through challenging terrain. 

Quinn knows he’s holding the group up, that they’d probably be in Turkey by now with their prisoner if it wasn’t for his injuries. Yet he’s doing all that he can, struggling along without a word. Hides the blood and the pain, tells himself to ignore the little voice that tells him to do the honourable thing - take off, scurry away and let them complete the mission. 

But he knows the group, knows they will spend precious time looking for him. Because he would do the same, would never let a brother run off to die on his own just for the sake of the operation. 

So he plods along, losing pieces of heart along the way. No longer sure of anything he’s doing, desperate to break free of it all. 

Quinn reaches for his canteen, slips some pills into his mouth, takes a sip of water. Pretends to listen as the other three guys debate their immediate future. 

They had been headed to the nearest border point, Bab al-Hawa. Their original extraction order for the ISIS prisoner had sent them to this supposedly safe border crossing. Under civilian control, turned over by US-affiliated rebels. Yet even that was a risk now that the rebels controlling the border are Islamic Front and other Salafist militias. Rebels no longer associated with the Syrian Free Army, the group originaly allied with the US against the Assad regime. 

Not that anywhere is safe when you’re a CIA black ops team with a high-ranking ISIS prisoner. Their package would be an appealing target for any of the militant factions, either as trade bait or for use in setting an example. And almost any group would love to have some leverage against the US army, the CIA - possibly even the rebels that are supposedly their allies. 

This is the conversation they’ve been having for the past week, ever since they barely survived the bombing in the ruins. Cross into Turkey at the al-Hawa border checkpoint according to plan even though the situation with the rebels has changed. Possibly get arrested for spying, while also delivering their prisoner right to Assad. Maybe get beheaded right on the spot. 

Or try to sneak across a heavily guarded border with an increasingly uncooperative prisoner and an injured operative. It was how they got in, but that was before the area became so hotly contested again, so heavily guarded. 

“We’re already fucking here,” JC says tiredly. “We could be across the border and at the safe house in a few hours. And intel says there’s still friendlies at this crossing - it’s our best shot.” 

Silently Quinn agrees, but mostly with what JC’s not saying. As the team’s medic, he’s surely thinking that Quinn’s in no shape to go on a trek through enemy-infested mountains, that he’s barely hanging on as it is. 

He stifles a shiver at the thought, tries not to be too obvious as he wipes cold sweat off his forehead. The constant fever he’s been running is a sure sign of infection and he’s just thankful it’s not worse, that the antibiotics he’s been eating like candy are keeping the worst away. 

“That intel is a month old,” Rob counters. “Out here things change in a fucking day. Assad’s army has gained a lot of ground lately, especially now that the rebels aren’t getting any support. And that’s not exactly going to make the rebels real friendly towards us either.” 

It’s not anything that hasn’t already been said but still Rob’s got a point. There’s a good chance they’ll get to the border only to be thrown in a cell, have their prisoner taken from them. Even with the intel saying that their mission has approval, that they will make it through. They’ve all learned to mistrust intel, especially in a rapidly changing war zone. 

“So then we either head for Azaz or go for the hills,” Andy states gloomily. “And that means we’re fucked either way.” 

The real problem is that they’re all right - it’s a big fucking risk to try the border but crossing through the mountains means going right through Assad’s army, surviving challenging terrain strewn with enemy troops on high alert for rebel activity. And heading to the other rebel controlled border crossing at Azaz would require a lot of backtracking through hotly contested land, including areas of ISIS control. 

“So we’re fucked either way,” JC concludes. “And we’re already here. So let’s at least check the border out, see if we can get some current intel.” 

Rob snorts irritably and Andy grimaces, looks defeated already. But neither have a good counterargument because it’s clear JC has a point. Pushing their prisoner back through enemy territory for another week or more would be fucking difficult, verging on impossible. The guy is already weak and tired, starting to give up. Only walks when threatened with pain and is obviously close to just lying down and choosing death. 

Quinn almost feels for the guy, keeps thinking the thought himself. That the struggle isn’t worth it, that it would just be easier to give up. Slip away in the dead of night, get far enough they wouldn’t find him, pass out and wait for the vultures to show. 

But of course he can’t, not after everything she’s done. He has to at least try, struggle through the seemingly pointless task.

So he’s thankful for JC, knows the medic is doing his best to help him out. Quinn’s hidden the worst of it from Rob and Andy, thinks they don’t need to know how much he’s struggling. But soon it’ll be obvious, especially if they end up trekking through the mountains. 

He doesn’t bother to contribute to the conversation, saves his energy for the essentials. It’s bare survival time now and he tries to numb out reality, puts one foot in front of the other without thought, trying not to feel anything. 

Huddles in corners, has the body language of a dying man. And he knows it. But the border is so close. If they could just make it across. 

Finally Rob nods towards JC and Andy.

“You two go,” he says. “We’ll stay here. See if you can find out who’s in control of the crossing without getting noticed.”

Andy and JC nod, shed their obvious weaponry and try to make themselves appear more like civilians, ragged refugees. 

“Any trouble and we rendezvous back here. That doesn’t work out, head for the foothills, meet at our last campsite,” Rob adds. 

The boys nod again, then head off without another word. Quinn watches them slip off, silently wishes them luck. 

And now it’s just another waiting game, the three of them hiding out in a patch of rock and trees, trying to avoid the suspicious eyes of refugees walking towards the border. 

Their prisoner is slumped over, seemingly only semi-conscious. It makes the need to find an extraction point even more urgent, yet right now they just have to sit tight and wait. 

Quinn feels Rob’s eyes on him, examining him in the dusky light. Another time he would make a snide comment, offer his team lead a dirty pick up line. Now he just sits and takes it, tries to ignore the silent questions. 

“What the fuck is up with you?” Rob finally asks. 

Quinn glares at his team lead, wonders what Rob will do if he refuses to talk. Considers playing that game but is tired just thinking about it. 

“I told you,” he finally replies. “I’m done.” 

Rob shakes his head, looks tired. 

“Yeah, no shit,” he says. “I just never thought I’d see it happen.” 

“It’s been a long time coming,” Quinn says grimly. 

“What the hell happened man?” Rob asks. “You go on one assignment, it turns into two years. Then you try and leave the team. Tell me this isn’t actually about a girl.” 

Quinn shakes his head. 

“No, it’s about me. Always has been,” he answers. 

He avoids Rob’s gaze, looks off into the direction JC and Andy took off in. Feels a buzz in his gut, the sense that somethings not quite right. 

His eyes focus in on a man walking towards the border, one that looks like all the others heading in that direction. Yet there’s something in the guy’s body language, his gait. Quinn can tell he’s deliberately trying not to hurry, that he is nervous about something. 

The man stops for a moment, wipes sweat off his forehead. Looks around as if in anticipation. 

Quinn automatically looks around too, is scanning the distance when an explosion near the border shoots flames and black smoke high into the sky. 

Of course panic ensues, refugees running everywhere now. And Rob is hollering something when there’s another round of explosions, one after the other. 

Quinn is still looking around in mild disbelief, can’t believe the relative calm of a minute ago has turned into this. But he had felt it, had somehow known it was coming. And just as he looks at the man he’d been watching, the one with the odd gait, the man presses a button, becomes nothing but flying flesh and metal. 

Quinn tackles Rob to the ground as the explosion roars past them, through them. Heat sears through their fireproof clothing; debris flies everywhere, bits of concrete, shards of steel.

Something hits him in the back of the head, hard enough that he sees stars for a moment and lands hard on Rob. 

“Holy shit,” Rob grunts as Quinn finally rolls off him, the explosions seemingly over for the time being. 

“Fuck me,” Quinn mutters, examining the scene, rubbing his head. 

There are suddenly hundreds of soldiers moving in from all directions, marching towards the border, supported by heavy machine guns mounted on pickup trucks. And from the direction they came in, combined with their uniforms and weaponry, it could only be Syrian Army. 

So Assad was trying to take back the border point from the Islamic Front - the new rebel controllers of the crossing. Which wasn’t particularly surprising - with control shifting from the Free Syrian Army to the Islamic Front, Assad must have seen it as the time to regain control of the strategic border point. Of course, of all things that could have happened right at that moment, this was the most unlikely and problematic. 

Which makes Quinn wonder if their luck could really be that bad or if Assad had somehow found out they were still there, trying to cross the border. It seemed impossible - Syrian intelligence was maxed out on their own shit, the civil war, the endless battle of Shia vs Sunni vs Jihadists. Yet the timing was perfect, the very fucking morning they got to the border. 

So he’s looking around, pretending his head doesn’t hurt and assessing the situation when he sees that their prisoner has crawled out from under some crumbled masonry, is making a run for it. 

“Fuck!” Rob yells as Quinn points him towards the problem. 

Rob takes off after the prisoner, Quinn follows at a slower pace, stumbling his way through the rubble and debris. He’s making his way upstream a sea of people fleeing from the border, trying to avoid a new stream of soldiers filing in from the southwest. And he can only barely make out the direction Rob was headed in, is now just blindly shuffling his way towards the border, trying to avoid detection from any of the Syrian army. 

He’s forced to slip into an empty dead end alley, exhausted and unsettled. It was never good to be separated from the team, especially in his weakened state. Quinn leans against the wall for a moment, takes a few shallow breaths. 

His head is throbbing along with the rest of his body and he has to force himself to slow down, think. Step one is to find Rob and the prisoner, see if they still have a mission at all. And as much as he’d rather just walk in the other direction, hobble away from all this bullshit, Quinn has a job to finish. 

So he sucks back all his wants, tells himself to soldier on. Takes one painful step and then another. Struggles back into the stream of people, ignores the terror, the dead they are stepping over. 

He looks all around for any sign of Rob, can only see bloody limbless people running by, covered in ash and dirt. So he pushes through the crowd, warily skirting by any soldiers spread in amongst the fleeing refugees. 

And then he sees something off to his side, a stirring that looks different somehow. Familiar. 

Quinn slips down the side street, around a corner. Moves as fast as he can, frustrated with his own unsteadiness. 

But at least his mental faculties are still firing, his perceptions still acute. Quinn peeks around the next corner and sees a Syrian army soldier scurrying behind a wall, clearly following someone. 

Quinn carefully pulls out his sidearm, thumbs off the safety. Swears to himself as the soldier keeps moving, grits his teeth and follows as quickly as he can. 

On the next street he sees the soldier look inside a concrete building and then hide up against the side of a blown out window, his weapon at the ready. Quinn takes a breath, tells himself it’s time. 

The soldier is in firing position, about to pull the trigger when Quinn comes up from behind and fires two shots - one each through his chest and his head. The soldier slumps across the empty window frame and Quinn can see Rob inside the building, a surprised look on his face, readying his weapon though it’s already too late. 

Rob gives Quinn a silent nod of thanks as he pulls their prisoner to his feet, pushes him at gunpoint out of the building. 

“We’re fucked,” Rob mutters as he approaches. “Let’s get to the rendezvous.” 

Quinn silently agrees, knows that the border is no longer an option now. From all appearances they just happened to arrive on the same day that the Syrian Army decided to launch a major offensive. Coincidence or not, the crossing is now useless to them - either closed due to the chaos or manned by the enemy. 

Rob leads at a brisk pace and doesn’t look back, prods the prisoner with his M4 rifle as they head towards the spot where they had split from JC and Andy. Quinn follows behind, tries to keep up but finds himself caught in the wave of humanity still streaming away from the border. 

Women, children. Families of refugees, all of their possessions discarded, burning. Dead babies, dismembered body parts. Blood and smoke. The smell of burnt flesh, flaming vehicles, spilt diesel. 

He trips on a moaning human carcass and stumbles to his hands. Instantly, the crowd pushes up against him, makes it impossible to find his footing and suddenly he’s hyperventilating, feels the walls coming in on him. 

Quinn has a moment to realize that this is probably about how Sandy felt, on the street in Islamabad. While he was in the car, driving away to safety, abandoning Sandy to death. 

Panic is all around him, in him. Someone kicks him in the kidney and it almost pushes him back down to the ground but he struggles to stay on his knees, knows he’s dead if he falls. 

Every scream every footstep every gunshot swirls inside his head, movement surrounds him yet he’s frozen in the cacophony of it all, every synapse stretched to its limit. So much going on in his brain it seems to have shorted out from too much sensory input at once. 

And just then he swears he hears her. She’s pissed off as usual, comes in above all the other noise. 

“Jesus Quinn what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

He thinks what the fuck is not wrong with him. His mind is blown, his body weak. 

I’m fucking tired, Carrie, he thinks. I’m so done with this shit. 

He doesn’t hear her again but finds himself struggling to his feet, pushing back against the flow of oncoming people. 

And then he’s walking again, slowly follows the crowd towards their rendezvous point. Gets close and sees that their meeting spot is covered by Syrian army, groans inwardly thinking of the much longer walk to the second option. 

He doesn’t see any of the team around, so he soldiers on. The walk to the foothills was about twenty kilometres, three hours if he wasn’t injured. At the rate he’s able to move at though it will likely take him almost twice that. 

And he really is fucking tired, sick of being a liability. If it wasn’t for his obligations he wouldn’t fucking bother. It’s almost not worth the bother anyhow. 

Yet he can’t quite shake it, the knowledge that giving up now would leave her hanging, be the ultimate ditch. 

So he does it for her, even though he’s still not convinced she really gives a shit. It takes a lot to make her care about anything - he’s not sure she really knows how. 

One foot in front of the other. Through the searing noon day sun, his head starting to swim from dehydration, lack of caloric intake. 

And all along the way he’s avoiding the stream of civilians headed away from the border, the platoons of Syrian army marching in the other direction. Anyone could be a spy, an informant, a citizen ready to give him up for any little thing. 

Quinn ducks and weaves, makes terrible time. His sweat is turning cold even in the heat of the afternoon, he can feel his body failing at the cellular level. 

Yet he keeps going, practices pushing the pain aside. Falls back on his special ops training, where they beat you down until you think you’re past your breaking point. 

It’s like working with Carrie he thinks. A constant emotional and physical barrage meant to destroy your soul, test your endurance, your will to survive. 

*

Hours later the sun is just about to drop behind the mountains and Quinn is lying flat against the ground against a low fence, trying not to breathe. He’d made it through the long afternoon, avoided being seen by any Syrian army. And now he’s only a few hundred metres away from their rendezvous point but of course there’s about a hundred soldiers between him and his target. 

Thankfully the soldiers are marching out, do not seem to be looking for him. And the hiding spot he’s wedged into has decent cover, should be good enough for his current needs. 

Quinn wills them to hurry along their way, knows he needs to find water soon or he won’t survive much longer. His mouth is a desert of dust, his muscles starting to cramp. He wills himself to stay conscious by rapping his knuckles against the hard ground, counting the soldiers as they walk by. 

His count is at ninety-seven when the last man walks by. Quinn waits for another half an hour in his hidey hole, then struggles to his feet. 

The day is finally turning to dusk as he forces himself through the remaining hour of walking. He sees no more soldiers but is still careful, always walks near potential hiding spots. 

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Quinn spots the grove of trees they’d designated as their backup rendezvous point. Near the foot of the mountains in a slightly forested area, it had been a good spot to hole up the previous night.

He approaches and doesn’t see anyone there but he knows the team would be well hidden, camouflaged in amongst the trees. Quinn is about twenty metres from the edge of the copse when he gets the feeling of being watched, puts up his hands, wonders if he’s about to be executed. 

Instead he hears the click of a safety being re-engaged, turns to see JC emerge from inside a scrubby bush. 

“What took you so long?” the medic quips, giving Quinn a visual once over. 

Quinn is too tired to smirk, to avoid his teammate’s watchful eye. Shakes his head as an answer, uses all of his remaining energy to follow JC into the copse of trees. 

They find the rest of the group hidden in some low lying trees and Quinn can tell that Rob’s somewhat surprised he made it this far, that he bothered in his state. 

“What the hell happened?” Quinn asks, to deflect the attention away. 

JC scowls, exhales irritably. “Who the fuck knows,” he says. “We were about one click out when the first bombs blew. Closest one to us was 25 yards. Knocked me out for a minute, Andy just caught some shrapnel. Then Syrian army was everywhere, all the refugees running the other direction. We figure they have control of the border now and basically we’re fucked.” 

Quinn nods, had come to the same conclusion himself. He wonders again if it was merely chance that this Syrian Army attack happened the same day they were trying to get their package across the border. No one could know their location, they are completely on their own. Yet Carrie had found them. Maybe Assad had too. 

“So now what?” Quinn asks, wondering if he’s ready to hear the answer. Because he knows their options are extremely limited, boxed in from all sides with different factions of the ongoing civil war.

“You already know the answer to that,” Rob replies. 

Quinn’s expression stays stoney but he feels a bit queasy, thinks about the long, painful days ahead. 

“Over the mountains,” he says. 

Rob nods and Quinn looks at his team lead, thinks to himself that they all know he isn’t going to make it over mountainous terrain, possibly still laden with hostile soldiers. 

“What if Assad’s still got army stationed there? These are his home mountains,” Quinn asks. 

“You saw how many platoons went out to the border today,” Rob replies. “It had to be at least most of his men, if not all of them. This is our only shot.” 

“And maybe he had intel on us,” Quinn says. “Maybe the attack on the border was just to push us into the mountains.” 

Rob grunts, gives Quinn a hard look.  
 “Maybe it was,” he says grimly. “But either way we’re shit out of luck. This is our best shot because we know there aren’t many left the mountains. Every other fucking direction it’s ISIS or Al-Nusra or Islamic Front.” 

It’s all shit that Quinn knows already. And if he wasn’t so fucking drained he’d have no issues with the plan. But the likelihood of him making it through another few days trekking through enemy terrain was very low and the thought of dying in the mountains of Syria didn’t exactly appeal to him. 

Yet it is the best course of action for the team, their mission. And he isn’t in any shape to take off on the group, needs them if he has any chance of survival. 

“When do we leave?” Quinn asks tiredly, giving into his fate. 

“In fifteen,” Rob replies with a nod of approval. “We were just waiting on you. So go get JC to tape up your head and then we’re gone.” 

Quinn touches his hand to the back of his head in confusion, slowly realizes the grimy sweat he’d been trying to ignore all day was actually a trickle of blood, running down his neck and back. 

He wonders how the fuck he hadn’t noticed it, then realizes he barely remembers anything of the day, probably because he’d been running on the last dregs of energy the whole time. 

And he thinks how it seems near impossible just to stand up right now, much less be ready to trek through dense bush in the next fifteen minutes. Yet he knows he has to do it, at least try. Because she would never forgive him for giving up, that much he knows. And, absurdly, that still makes a difference to him, out here in the Syrian war zone, just a step away from death. 

So Quinn hauls himself to his feet, leans against the tree and takes a deep breath. He thinks he’s never felt more fragile than this, ready to shatter at the slightest impact. Not with the kid, not with losing his own kid. Not even at the embassy, Fara dead in Max’s arms. 

It’s the loss of purpose, the realization that there’s no point to everything you’ve ever done. And worse, that it’s all only caused more pain, more harm to a world filled with horror and hate.

Of course it’s not the first time he’s thought these things, yet he’s always managed to go on, struggle through. But now, when every fucking step is painful and there’s days and days of steps to make it through. And all that’s on the other end is a life he hates, a black hole of an existence. 

Quinn shakes his head, tries to get rid of the bleak thoughts, find the willpower to keep going. He’s never been the guy who needs anyone but right now he really could use some sort of support, a little compassion. 

But it’s not going to come from the guys, and if Carrie were here she’d be the first to kick him in the pants, throw his injured ass back into the battle. 

The thought makes him smirk, makes him feel a little less sorry for himself. It was his own fucking fault anyways, he got himself into this situation and no one else was going to get him out. 

Five of his fifteen minutes gone, Quinn finally grits his teeth, takes a step. Mentally readies himself for what will likely be a death march, his end of days. And he wishes for just one chance, to explain himself, to make a different choice. But he knows he’s had that chance, that he ran in the face of it. 

So he walks towards the medic, bleeding from his head and his heart, still looking for a second chance.


	6. ciii

Carrie’s dozing at her desk when her computer freaks out and startles her awake. She glances around, realizes it’s still early, the office silent except for her computer pinging alert after alert. 

Instantly she shakes off the last vestiges of sleep and looks at her computer screen. Sees that it’s her CIA equivalent of a Google alert going off, that there’s something big happening at the Bab al-Hawa border crossing between Syria and Turkey. 

Carrie reads through each news item, tries to sort out what’s happening half a world away from a series of under-informed CIA reports.  
 The best she can figure is that the border is closed on the Syrian side due to an attack by Assad’s forces. Which is a pretty big step back considering the border had been firmly held by Syrian Free Army rebels for months before the Islamic Front then took over. 

And of course the question that pings through her head is whether this is just part of the endless war, Assad striking out for control of the northern border, or if this unexpected attack has some other reason behind it. 

But she’s been trying not to read too much into things, knows it’s easy to jump to conclusions when worrying about a black ops team attempting to transport an enemy operative across a volatile border. Not that she is even sure any of them are still alive, or that their mission hasn’t completely changed in the week or so since she lost them amongst the bombs and refugees. 

Yet she still watches, reads through every news item, every CIA briefing. Has cultivated assets in both Damascus and Ankara stations, knows as much about the northern border region as is possible from a desk in Langley. 

At least nobody has proclaimed them dead, no videos of US special ops being beheaded, no demands for ransom. Yet they could easily have succumbed in the midst of the war, no one the wiser, just more bodies on the streets. 

Carrie shakes the dark thought out of her head, tells herself there’s still hope. That the situation at the border might actually mean something to that effect. That it might not be just circumstance that Assad mounted an attack on that particular border point at this particular time. 

Brain cells starting to fire double time, she clicks on a video, footage from the Syrian side of the border. The video is blurry, and she can’t tell how far from the border the camera is. But she can easily see the explosions start going off in every direction, can tell it’s definitely a Syrian army operation. 

What she doesn’t see is any sign of a small team in black, any indication that this isn’t only an attempt by Assad to retake the border. But Carrie feels her nerve endings start to tingle, knows it’s something she needs to dig into. Fires up another video, watches as much footage as she can. 

It’s over an hour later, while she’s watching yet another grainy video full of blood-spattered refugees and Syrian army soldiers, that she finally sees something of interest. Two men, dirty and in commando gear. She sees them in the corner of the screen, can tell they are trying to avoid being seen in all the commotion. 

The men make a move when there’s finally a break in the line of soldiers filing by, scurrying out of their hiding spot to join the crowd of refugees. Carrie follows with her eyes, wonders if it’s him. 

She knows it’s highly unlikely, thinks he must have been injured in the previous battle, would not yet be moving easily. But it was her only possible sighting in the last week, and the timing made sense, considering they were probably travelling with an uncooperative prisoner and an injured operative. 

She watches until the men are off her screen, switches to other video trying to get another glimpse. It’s another hour before she sees them again, this time heading further away from the border point. Mentally Carrie plots their movement on a map of the area, thinks to herself that they’re heading for the mountains. More specifically the Alawite mountain, Jabal an Nusayriyah. Part of Assad’s stronghold, his home base. 

She shakes her head, thinks that can’t be right. That it’s not Quinn’s group, that they would never head straight into enemy terrain like that. 

But then again they don’t have many other options if they need to get across the border. And it does appear that most, if not all, of Assad’s forces had left the mountains. 

Carrie exhales loudly, notices she’s grinding her teeth. There are too many possibilities, no way of knowing what’s going on. 

Two commandos, dressed like special ops, dodging Syrian army. At about the right time. But then where are the other three? There should be two more from the team and their prisoner. 

Carrie stops to think for a moment, then starts rewatching the videos. Rewinds and fast forwards, sees the two men go by in each video over and over, looks for anyone else that fits the mold. 

And finally she thinks she sees something. In one of the videos, the one furthest from the border point. 

A single figure, slumped behind a wall. Waiting out of sight. Hiding. 

He moves occasionally, as quickly as his awkward gait will allow. Darts in and out, leans against walls for support. Heads in the same direction as the other two, looks to be dressed the same. 

Carrie tells herself to breathe, not to jump to conclusions. It’s a blurry video of an injured man dressed in black, leaving the site of multiple bombings. There is no evidence that it’s him, nothing except for the shit she’s come up with in her head. 

And then that’s all, the man in the video limps out of frame. Carrie searches frantically through every other video, every angle but finds nothing else. 

She checks the time, sees it’s nearly seven am Eastern. Almost two PM in Turkey. 

So all this happened the previous day, just before dusk. If the men she had seen were really Quinn and his group then they would have already made it to the mountains, were quite possibly heading right into Assad’s stronghold right at that moment. With Quinn probably injured, also likely dealing with an uncooperative prisoner. 

Thoughts start pushing through her head, streaming in from all sides. She looks up any and all information she can find on the mountains, about Assad’s forces there. At the same time she runs through possibilities of what she could even do if she had to, how to warn them if they were headed into a trap. And she tries not to think about Quinn on the ground, hobbling around in a fucking death zone. But that’s fairly impossible and it occupies a good amount of her head. 

Her first mission is fruitful yet alarming. Carrie finds all sorts of reports of recent activity by Assad’s forces in and around those mountains. The intelligence they have suggests that Syrian boys are being sent there to military training camps, that other military personnel are stationed there permanently. And this was all from before the rest of Assad’s forces showed up there just recently, 

Fuck, she thinks. Realizes that only the most recent arrivals left for the border, that the rest are still there. Wonders if it was a decoy to send all the soldiers from the mountain, if Assad also knows Quinn’s team is there, wants them to detour right into the rest of his forces. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Either way it doesn’t matter, they can’t go into those fucking mountains. There will be Assad’s guys everywhere, possibly on the lookout for them, but also just as likely to kill any Americans they find. 

She wonders how far they got, figures if the man she had seen on the video was Quinn then it would have taken him several hours at his pace just to make it to the bottom of the mountain. Which would have put him there around dusk. Which meant the group probably left shortly after Quinn showed up, if he even made it. And that would put them somewhere in the mountains already, likely headed straight into an ambush. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Carrie picks up the phone, dials a now-familiar number. Hears the other end pick up and starts right in on her thoughts, no time for hellos. 

“What the hell is happening at the border?” she snaps. 

There’s a sigh at the other end, another irritated sound. 

“Mathison, you do realize I have a station to run,” says Robert Nilson, the voice on the other side. “You remember what that’s like? No time to answer crank calls from Langley?” 

Carrie disregards the barb, has no time for personal issues. 

“Come on Rob, you at least have time to tell me this. What is going on at Bab al-Hawa? From what I can tell Assad’s moved in and shut it down with over half his forces. Has he been pulling platoons lately? Any info on Jabal an Nusayriyah, how many they have there?” 

“Jesus, Mathison,” he replies. “One question at a time please. al-Hawa’s closed, your intel is correct, Assad came in and pushed the Islamic Front out. And there is something happening in those mountains, Assad’s got more and more soldiers amassed there, a bunch of training camps, maybe for Syrian special ops. But actual numbers are hard to come by and we don’t know exactly what’s going on up there.” 

“So there are probably still platoons there, possibly a lot of them,” Carrie says dully, has never been so upset to be right. 

“Yeah well it is his home base. Alawite mountain right,” Nilson replies, as if this is not an issue. “What’s it to you anyways? You tell me why the civil war in Syria has you calling me at all hours when you’re in Langley, assigned to a region half a world away?” 

Carrie groans inwardly, knew it would come to this in the end. But she has levels of truth, just enough to get her what she needs.  
 “I think this is a trap,” she says, as calmly as she can. 

“What do you mean?” Nilson asks, still sounding irritated. 

“Assad’s been amassing soldiers there, lying in wait. Then they set off the bombs today at the border, send half the soldiers in that direction, make it look like they’re clearing out the mountains,” Carrie explains, now really starting to believe that it’s true.

Nilson makes an exasperated sound. 

“And why the hell would Assad go to all that bother?” he asks. “They don’t need Bab al-Hawa that badly.” 

“It’s not just about the fucking border,” she replies snappishly. “There’s a team out there, trying to cross into Turkey with an ISIS prisoner. Assad wants the prisoner for himself, would do anything to capture or kill the team. So he’s set this up, blow up the border and send them towards the mountains. They’ll think most of his soldiers have gone to the border. But they’ll be wrong, and headed right into an ambush.” 

There’s a pause on the other end as Nilson digests what she just told him. She wonders if he believes her at all, realizes it sounds halfway hysterical, a total conjecture. 

“So why am I only hearing this from you, not through official channels?” he finally asks. “Why isn’t Dar Adal making the call for his guys?” 

Fuck, Carrie thinks. Tries to come up with a story but can’t, tells herself to think quick. 

“Don’t bother,” Nilson continues. “Even if you come up with a plausible story I still can’t do anything about this. Your guys are up shit creek, surrounded on every side by Assad or ISIS or IF. They have no allies and I have no one out there either.” 

Yeah right, Carrie thinks. I’ve got you now. 

“Bullshit Rob. You’re the fucking chief of station and you don’t have a single operative out at a border point that just got taken over by the Syrian army?” she asks. “You must have sent people to check things out when the bombs started to blow, I know you have assets out there you can use.” 

“And why would I do that?” Nilson counters. “Run an unofficial op, risk the lives of my agents, their assets? For some imaginary operatives that may or may not even be there?”

He sounds smug, like he’s won the round. But Carrie smirks, knows she’s set her own trap. 

“You want it to be official, I’ll make it official. You’ll get a call from the director himself authorizing it. Along with a personal favour from him, redeemable anytime,” she replies.

“Bullshit,” Nilson says. “Don’t promise what you can’t deliver, Mathison.” 

“Give me fifteen minutes,” Carrie replies. “Then answer your phone.” 

*

Carrie hightails it to Saul’s office, braces herself for an unpleasant encounter. Takes a deep breath and pushes her way in past his assistant, who must be used to it by now. 

“I need a favour,” she says by way of greeting. Knows she may as well get down to the point, that her time is limited. 

Saul sighs, looks up from the brief he’d been reading. 

“What now Carrie?” he asks, tiredness already in his voice. 

“I need to you call Rob Nilson, tell him that the operation is a go. Oh and that he has an open-ended favour from you,” she states calmly. 

Saul looks at her with an unreadable expression somewhere between exasperation and incredulity. 

“What operation, Carrie?” he asks. “And why would I offer Nilson a favour for something I don’t even know about?” 

Carrie gives him her most determined look, knows this is the moment it’s all lost or won. 

“I need him to open the border at Bab al-Hawa. And to create a disturbance in the Alawite mountains. By dawn tomorrow, Syrian time,” she answers. 

Saul sighs again, gives her a stern look. 

“There is no reason to believe this attack on the border is anything other than what it seems. Assad’s been after the region for ages now, has been trying to recapture the border point for some time,” he argues. 

“But right now? Exactly the day they make it to the border? I saw two, maybe three of them on surveillance video. And Assad amassed more than twice that number of soldiers in the mountains, why did he only send half his men? Because it’s a fucking trap, that’s why. He’s pushed them towards the mountains as their only chance and he’s fucking lying in wait.” Carrie fires back, any semblance of calm completely gone. 

“You are making this up in your head, Carrie,” Saul growls. “Seeing things that you want to see.” 

“And that is something you want to risk? Assad capturing a CIA special ops team in his home base? Public beheadings, giving their ISIS prisoner back?” Carrie asks. 

Saul is agitated now and she knows it’s close, that there’s an opening right now. 

“They are as good as tortured and dead if we don’t do anything now. They probably started into the mountains last night, will hide out during the days. They’re making slow time but we still only have a few hours to make this happen, get the border open by morning in Syria,” she argues. “And you know this administration wants the border open, under civilian control. Nilson has the assets on the border, he can make this happen. He just needs the go ahead.” 

Saul looks at her with a hard expression, shakes his head tiredly. 

“No, Carrie,” he finally says. “This has to end somewhere.” 

She looks back with piercing determination. 

“No it doesn’t, Saul,” she says slowly, fiercely. “This doesn’t end until he’s home.” 

“No, Carrie,” he says right back. “It’s over.” 

“Then this is over too,” she spits right back, gesturing with her hands to indicate the general area around them. 

Saul gives her a questioning look, is clearly unsure what she means. 

“Your job,” she clarifies. “I know what you’re afraid of Saul. And I have a copy.” 

The stillness in the room is absolute, a moment out of time. 

“Think hard about what you’re doing, Carrie,” Saul growls. 

“I have, Saul,” Carrie replies. “I’ve been saving my cards for exactly this moment. I’ve done everything you asked for and you know I’m only here for this. Now it’s your play.”

Saul looks about as pissed off as she’s ever seen him, and that’s saying a lot. But he would only be this mad if he’s losing, which makes her realize she’s won. 

“This is it, Carrie,” he finally says. “The last favour. It’s over after this. You need anything else, you leave. If you want to take me down when you go, that’s up to you.” 

Carrie bites the inside of her lip, knows she’s pushing towards the end of their relationship. But she lost Saul the moment he made his deal with the devil, will not let sentiment get in the way of what she needs now. 

So she just nods, agrees to the terms. 

“This is it then,” she replies. “Make the call.” 

* 

She’s barely made it back to her office when the phone rings. Carrie picks it up, smiles to herself as she hears Nilson’s gruff voice on the other end. 

“I don’t know how you pull shit like this off, Mathison,” he mutters. “Tell me what you want.” 

“First I need some sort of diversion, some action to keep them out of those mountains. Blow a few things up. That has to happen tonight, just after it’s dark and they’re about to move. Then I need the border open by tomorrow morning, Syrian time,” Carrie says quickly, anxious to get things rolling. 

She hears Nilson make a sound of disbelief on the other end, knows she’s still got a battle on her hands. 

“Not possible,” he states firmly. “I don’t have the resources to even make one of those things happen, much less both.” 

Carrie makes her own noise of incredulity, prepares her rebuttal.

“Bullshit,” she fires back. “I know you must have assets all over that region, probably a team or two headed that direction since the border party started yesterday. So stop hedging on me, I made good on my end of the deal, it’s time for you to step up.”

Nilson pauses, doesn’t reply right away. 

“I can put a team on the mountain, blow some IEDs tonight,” he finally says. “But having the border open by tomorrow is a fucking dream, Mathison. I don’t have the manpower.” 

Carrie takes a breath, satisfied that at least half the deal is done. 

“It’s what the director wants,” she reminds him. “Use the rebels, put all your assets out with the word that Assad is shutting the border for good, that nobody will get across unless they support the rebels in getting it open again. Or say that Assad’s planning a fucking massacre, that they want control of the border to slaughter refugees, catch rebels and traitors. I don’t care what you fucking tell them, just make it happen!” 

Nilson grunts, and she can feel his irritation through the phone line, across miles of land and sea. But he doesn’t shoot her down right away, seems to be thinking through his options. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says after a long pause. “No guarantees.”    
And of course Carrie knows there’s never any guarantees in a war zone, in an area with limited access for teams. But this needs to happen, and she’s going to do her damnedest to make sure it does. 

“Make it happen, Rob,” she repeats. “Or deal’s off.” 

Another pause, another irritated grunt. 

“I’ll make it happen,” Nilson says grudgingly. “And I don’t want to hear from you again after this.” 

“Deal,” Carrie replies, hanging up the phone before he can renege on his end of the bargain. 

And then she’s just standing there, desperately hoping Nilson can make good on his promises, that there’s a chance of success. 

Because Carrie knows as well as anyone that her plan is more likely to fail than succeed, that even the smallest thing can derail the whole operation. Nilson is good, has been successful because he has his hands in everything, assets everywhere. But he’s not infallible, and there’s a lot of moving parts to this already haphazard operation. A mission no one else gives a shit about.

But she can’t give up hope, has to keep thinking that she’s doing everything she can to influence a situation she shouldn’t even know about. Has to keep hoping that she isn’t just seeing things she wants to see, that the limping man in the video was actually Quinn. 

Carrie glances at the clock, sees that it’s barely past eight am. Her official work day hasn’t even started and already she’s exhausted, yet still full of nervous energy. 

She sits down at her desk, can’t resist the desire to play the video again and again. Watches the grainy image of an injured man struggling with every step, imagines him trying to make it through mountainous terrain with enemy soldiers all around. 

If it’s Quinn she knows he’s bad off, that it would take a lot just for him to show any sign of weakness. Carrie can’t even decide if she wants it to be him or not, if the knowledge that he’s still alive but hurt and headed into enemy fire is better than just not knowing. 

She can only be sure of one thing - that she has to try until she can’t, that she will do everything within her power to get him through alive. Why the duty has fallen to her? That she can’t quite say. Other than she’s finally realized how good he was to her, that she can’t bear losing him to the dark. 

So Carrie watches the video time and again, focuses on body language, on every little nuance she can see. And there’s nothing that confirms it’s Quinn, absolutely no way to be sure. 

Yet she has that feeling, the one that tells her she’s right, even though there’s no way to prove it. And silently she talks to him, the man in the video. Tells him that she’s still on his side, that he still has something to live for. 

Don’t give up, Quinn, she says to him as she rewatches the video yet again. 

This is not the end.


	7. q.iv

Quinn is taking a quick breather, quietly sucking in the evening air when the first bullet flies by, close enough for him to see. He drops to the ground instinctively, looks around to assess the situation.

The mountains had been unnervingly quiet to start, seemingly devoid of life. Which either meant that Assad’s guys were mostly gone or were hiding, waiting for them. And a single stray bullet could mean nothing at all. Or could be the first sign of an attack, an ambush. 

A second bullet zips through the air and for an instant he sees the flash of the sniper rifle, up a bit higher on a facing ridge. 

Fuck me, Quinn mutters. Knows they’re pretty much fucked if there’s a sniper after them. Especially with him moving at a fucking snail’s pace. 

He looks up ahead, can barely make out the rest of the guys and their prisoner. A single bird twitters, then flies away as a third sniper bullet zings by. 

“FUCK!” comes a shout from ahead, the kind of exclamation only made when someone’s been hit. 

There’s only the one shout and it sounds like Andy. Quinn wonders how bad his teammate’s been hit, then starts to hear movement all around him and realizes they are all about to die. 

Quinn commando crawls as best he can towards a low area of shrubs, gets in amongst the greenery as the first feet appear in his view. 

Soldiers boots, and lots of them. Quinn holds his breath, wonders if it’s dark enough he won’t be seen. 

Ten soldiers walk by him, towards the rest of his team and Quinn resists the urge to holler, alert the guys. He hears some action from in front, weapons fired and knows he has to move, get closer to the team.

He gets to his feet, tries to disregard how difficult that simple task is getting. The constant pain is one thing, can be ignored to an extent. But Quinn feels his leg getting weaker, less able to support his weight. He knows his wounds aren’t healing, that the tissue is starting to die, the infection getting stronger. However, considering the situation, his survival is starting to be a moot point. 

Shots are now flying every where and he has no idea where the rest of the guys are. All he can do is keep moving towards the action, shuffling slowly through the trees. 

Thankfully all the action seems to be in front of him so he doesn’t have to cover his rear, but Quinn feels naked nonetheless - injured and alone, surrounded by enemy soldiers. 

He grips his weapon tighter in his hand, lets the action calm him as it usually does. If he’s going out, he’s going to at least take some of these fuckers with him, he thinks. 

But even that thought doesn’t ring true with him anymore, knows that any soldiers he kills are just grunts in the war, make no real difference to Assad or the IS or anyone else. Except to their families, the people they leave behind. 

The soldiers seem to be closing in on his team, congregating towards a grove of trees that back against a granite wall. Weapons seem to be being fired at will, and there’s plenty of responding fire on both sides. But there are about thirty soldiers, and only three in the woods. Andy probably hit, the others low on ammo. 

Quinn approaches silently, making his awkward footfalls glide on the forest floor. Finds a well-hidden spot to take a breath, assess the situation.   
He doesn’t have much at his disposal - some ammo, a few grenades. He’s too far for a grenade to do much good and if he gets closer he’ll never get out, not the way he’s moving. Which may be the choice in the end anyhow, but he’s not ready to make it quite yet. 

Quinn looks at his materials, comes up with a quick plan. Takes a breath and puts together a simple bomb on a timer. The familiar feeling of the action calms him, makes him feel back in control. He leaves the bomb on the ground where he’s hiding, then makes his way slowly and carefully towards another area of underbrush, still a ways back from the action. 

Gets to his spot without being seen, crouches down to catch his breath, gather his materials. Makes and sets another bomb, scurries off to a third location, this time a bit behind the shooting, against the rocky wall of the mountain. 

It takes some time to make the distance but Quinn pushes himself through the muscle fatigue he feels, keeps telling himself to use everything he’s got left. Because really, if the guys die here, he’s going down with them, taking out as many enemies as he can. 

Quinn climbs the side of the slope awkwardly, with slow exact movements. Tests every hold twice to make sure he won’t slip on his bad side, fall and fuck everything up. 

He finally reaches his little perch, readies himself with his weapon and a grenade. Imagines for a moment what will happen when he drops the grenade and the bombs go off. What he knows for sure is that the entire platoon firing on his team will stop long enough to look around, assess the situation. That might give his guys the opportunity to move out of the woods, find a better position.

Hopefully some of the soldiers come his way, to find out what happened and he will have the opportunity to take out a lot of them before they figure out what’s going on. But if he’s successful in drawing large amounts of the attackers towards him, there’s only so long he will be able to hold out for. 

Quinn takes a deep breath, pulls the pin on the grenade, gets ready for the show to start. 

He throws it towards the enemy soldiers, hears it land with a soft thud, then explode with a familiar bang. 

Predictably, there’s action right away, shouting in Arabic and the sound of movement from amongst the soldiers. Through the dust Quinn can see a group start to move away from the larger force, coming towards him. 

Just as planned, he thinks to himself. Then wonders if anything else will go to plan. 

Quinn doesn’t fire even as the first few soldiers get within his range, waits for the next explosion, for the second phase of the plan to get started. 

The first bomb he set goes off a few seconds later, then the other one blows another sixty seconds after that. Quinn watches as all the soldiers turn, sees confusion and chaos start to build. 

The soldiers underneath him don’t take the bait but he can see small groups detach from the main group still surrounding his team. Immediately he sees his guys take advantage of the confusion, start firing and moving out of the woods as the soldiers spread out. 

Quinn starts firing too, takes out as many soldiers underneath him as he can. Instantly he hears shots being fired back, feels chips of granite flying off the mountain next to him. He takes cover, still keeps shooting back even as he tries to assess the situation. 

From what he can tell, things are going about as well as he predicted. Which didn’t mean much considering he expected it to all go to shit. The Syrian Army had initially all spread out to investigate the explosions but had better communication and discipline than he had hoped and now were re-forming their platoons near the edge of the woods and up against his rocky ledge. So his distraction had given them a brief edge in the situation but their window of opportunity was closing quick and they were still outnumbered twenty to one. 

He can see his team trying to make it out of the forest, attempting to give him some support from behind. But the progress they made while the Syrians were disrupted wasn’t nearly enough and now they seemed to be pinned down again, Syrian troops blocking them in from all sides. 

And the bullets flying around him aren’t dying down either, seem to be getting even closer as the soldiers move in on his ledge, approach from all sides. Sweat beads off his forehead as he watches the movement underneath him and he knows the end game is only a few minutes off. 

Quinn fires again and again, watches a few soldiers fall to the side, sees more gain ground on his perch. Bits of granite are flying everywhere now and he wonders how long he’s got until they gain the higher ground, take him out from above. 

He looks down again at his team, sees that they are in the same situation. Plenty of dead soldiers cover the ground near the woods but even more keep the offensive going. And Quinn can tell from the amount of fire coming from inside the trees is dying off. Which can mean they’ve lost guys or they’re almost out of ammo. And in either of those cases, they don’t have long either. 

Bad fucking decision on the mountains, he thinks to himself. Even though he knows it was the only call to be made, that they all knew what might have been waiting for them. 

Of course his instinct was right, the sense that it was an ambush, that the situation at the border wasn’t just coincidence. Not that being right made any fucking difference now that he was looking right at the end. 

Quinn sees movement near by, soldiers trying to get around his ledge, approach from above. He fires, knocks two off the side of the mountain but sees others right behind and knows he can’t get them all. Figures he has about five minutes left in this world, not even enough time to repent his many sins. 

He feels oddly calm, ready for it to all be over. Part of it is knowing he wasn’t ever going to make it out of these mountains alive, that the struggle is over before he suffers through more days of pain and exhaustion. And then there’s the part of him that knows he deserves this, that he owes for all the life he has taken. 

Beyond that, he doesn’t allow himself to feel regret, tells himself these are the choices he made long ago. That this is the life he was meant for, that dying alone on a mountainside is a fitting end. 

And he’s just saying one last silent good-bye even as he fires his last rounds, kills two more soldiers only to watch more take their places. They have the high ground now and he expects to feel his flesh ripping in only a few seconds time. So Quinn puts his weapon down, leans against the rocky outcrop. 

I’m sorry I fucked up, he tells her. But this is what I deserve. 

He lets her walk through his mind one last time, sees her scowl at him, hears her hurl profanities at him. It makes him crack a small smile even as he sees the enemy just metres away, trying to spot his hidey hole. 

Eyes wide open, he anticipates the moment. But instead he sees a huge flash from the east, hears the blast to match. And then again, another explosion to the north, just as big. 

All movement on the mountain stops immediately and Quinn hears frantic radio chatter in Arabic, soldiers shouting at each other. 

Everything freezes for a moment and he knows it’s the moment of truth, waits to see what happens. For a minute it looks like only half the remaining soldiers are being dispatched towards the explosions, that the rest are staying to finish him off. 

And then there are two more explosions, bigger than the first two and from around the same areas. Suddenly every radio begins to squawk with orders and the soldiers begin to move again, this time all heading towards the explosions. 

In a matter of minutes every Syrian army man is gone, everything dark and quiet again. Quinn finally lets himself breathe again, looks around again and again to convince himself of what just happened. 

There’s no movement from the woods but he thinks the team is just laying low. They were still responding with fire just before the explosions and are probably now discussing what the fuck just happened. 

Which is a good question, but not really one that’s essential at the moment. Quinn waits a few more minutes, thinking about possibilities, still totally shocked to be alive. 

He can’t even say if he’s happy with the result, had not considered living through the ambush. And now he’s just in the same old situation - injured and stuck out in enemy infested mountains with no possible routes to safety. 

Quinn sighs, grits his teeth. Pushes himself onto his feet, leans against the granite for balance. Slowly he makes his way down from his ledge, thinks he’s found a solid foothold until the rock crumbles under him and he awkwardly slides all the way to a painful landing. 

Quinn lands in a heap, just managing to brace himself at the end of the fall. Takes it mostly on his chest, feels the wind getting knocked out of him and he hits the ground. Lies there gasping, making a hollow sucking sound while his head throbs and the stars spin.

He’s more than a little disappointed to not be dead, that he’s being forced to struggle on. But there’s nothing to be done about it, it isn’t in him to just lay down, give up. 

So Quinn waits until he can breathe again, pushes himself to his feet. Stumbles a few steps, tries to get his body to move as required. 

It takes him almost half an hour to make it the few hundred metres to the edge of the woods where he’s met by low voices in hurried discussion. 

“What the fuck happened?” he mutters into the darkness. 

All the other voices stop for a moment before Rob finally responds. 

“How the hell are you still alive, asshole?” the team lead asks.

Quinn shrugs, knows he doesn’t have any answer to that question. Walks into the woods towards the sound of Rob’s voice and finds his team still intact, only seeming slightly worse for the wear. 

He can tell they’re all still feeling the glow of survival, hears the lightness in their voices. Even Andy, who is clearly bleeding from a few places. 

“Unlucky I guess,” Quinn replies softly. 

He feels the guys look at him, sits down away from their little circle. He knows what they’re thinking, that a teammate that doesn’t want to live never makes it home alive. And usually he wouldn’t be inclined to share but right now he’s raw to the bone, about to fall off the edge. 

“Well thanks for the bombs,” Rob says over the awkward silence. “We needed that.”

Quinn nods, acknowledges the comment but still feels nothing. 

“What about the other bombs?” he asks. “What the fuck was that about?” 

The guys look at each other, clearly have no answer. 

“Best guess is a rebel attack on their bases,” Rob says, not sounding very confident about it. “It’s the right general direction and distance.”

Quinn considers the info, thinks it fits with what he heard from the soldiers’ radios. An order to return to base, something about an attack. 

“No way the rebels got close enough to deliver IEDs that big, this soon,” he says. “They ran the other way, there’s no way they could regroup to make this happen.” 

“Well, it happened,” Rob says matter of factly. “Who else would be out here taking out Syrian army bases?” 

Quinn nods to the sense in that, thinks it is the only logical explanation. But now it means they can’t go over the mountains, that the Syrian army will be on the lookout, with bases throughout that territory. And they can’t go back to the border with it still under Assad’s control. 

So again, even though they survived the battle, they keep on losing the war. Quinn looks at their prisoner, now little more than a bag of bones. Wonders how can this be worth it, all of this bullshit just for this one guy. 

*

They decide to walk back down the way they came, at least knowing that area to be free of enemy soldiers. After that, well the situation was less clear. There was no way out of the country with their package, nothing that didn’t require another week or two of hard travel. 

But they had to get out of the mountains quickly so they make the push back down to the bottom, trying to get as far away as possible from where they had been ambushed, their last known location. 

Quinn pushes himself to keep up with the group, hardens himself to the pain of continued movement. By now he’s fairly certain it will be this way until the end. And that the end is not too far off. 

They hit the bottom just as dawn breaks and Quinn can’t believe it was just one night. That they walked in, got fucking ambushed, then somehow made it back down alive. No wonder he was so fucking exhausted though. 

With no plan, little hope, they stop by a creek, find a hidden spot to take a breather. Quinn crouches down awkwardly, gulps water, splashes it on his face. 

Yet again he’s somehow still alive and unsure how he feels about it. Hopeless, really. That his agony is just being extended while he awaits certain death. 

Still he will give it his all, whatever it is they decide to do. He sits and leans against a rock, looks out through a gap in the trees towards the road that lead to the border.

The sound of the creek and the strange calmness of their hiding spot almost lulls him to sleep but something twitches in him as he’s just about to drift off, snaps him to full attention. 

Quinn shakes his head, looks out towards the road again. It’s quite far off but he can still see it clearly, can tell that there’s a lot of activity, a horde of people walking towards the border again. 

It seemed unlikely that Assad had reopened the border to citizens fleeing the country, especially if he wanted to keep rebels posing as refugees from slipping out. But it seemed equally unlikely that the rebels had somehow regained control of the border and opened it just a day after they had been overrun by the Syrian army. 

But there was no doubt that a lot of people were heading towards the border again and that usually meant that it was open - local intel on this kind of shit was the best you can get. 

“Hey guys,” Quinn says quietly. “Looks like the border is open.” 

All the other guys had been half asleep too but stir immediately at Quinn’s statement. 

Rob takes a look and shakes his head in astonishment.   “Well, that’s fucking unlikely,” he says with furrowed eyebrows. 

Quinn knows they’re all thinking the same thing - that they no longer had a zero percent chance of accomplishing the mission. Sure, they now probably had about a one percent chance but it was something. 

He looks at his team, thinks it’s within plausibility they could be refugees. They are all dirty and ragged, dark from a month under the sun. Lose the weapons and the special ops body language and they could pass. Except they had no documents, only minor language skills. 

“We need some intel,” Rob grunts, stating the obvious. 

JC nods, stands up immediately. His Arabic is passable, the best of them all. 

“One hour,” he says, leaving the majority of his weapons behind as he starts walking out towards the road. 

*

It’s still not far past dawn when JC makes it back, scurries into their hideout. Quinn tries to read the medic’s body language, get a gauge on the news but JC just looks tired, cautious. 

JC shrugs when they all look at him in anticipation, gives his head a little shake. 

“Everyone is saying the border will open at seven local time, that the rebels somehow regained control from Assad,” he says. “Same story from every mouth.” 

No one speaks for a moment, everyone clearly bewildered at the change in situation. From the numbers that Assad had, it was obvious he had an insurmountable advantage over the rebels. Even if half the number had gone back to the mountains for the attacks on the bases, there should have still been enough soldiers to hold the border for a long time. And there was no way Assad would give up the border the day after finally regaining control. 

“But that’s fucking impossible,” Rob says. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as all those people walking to the border,” JC replies. 

And now they’re all thinking about it, the possibility of just walking across the border point into Turkey, being at the safe house across the border by nightfall. 

Not that it was likely the rebels would just let them cross the border even without their IS prisoner. So the safehouse is still a dream, even though it is so close they can almost taste it.

“So we going to do it?” Andy asks, giving voice to the question they are all thinking. 

Rob looks around, shakes his head. 

“I don’t like this,” he grunts. “It’s all too fucked up. Assad comes in the day we show up. Then all his bases get blown up and the rebels miraculously regain control of the border. None of this makes any fucking sense.”

There’s nothing to be said to that - Rob’s just stating the obvious again. They all have the experience to know it’s been fucked up, that none of this shit should be happening. But it keeps on happening and they have to choose, one way or another. And really, they only had one choice. 

“We don’t have any other options,” Quinn finally says, low and tired. “Our package isn’t going to make it another three days at this rate.” 

He doesn’t add that he won’t either, that he’s nearly done. But he knows his guys can see that too, read between the lines. 

Rob nods grimly, obviously hating the only decision that can be made. And with that their course is set, they all get up and start to prep for whatever is to come. 

They leave behind their weapons, strip out of their paramilitary gear. Each carries just a sidearm that will be tossed just before they hit the border point, enough to keep their prisoner with them. 

Quinn looks at himself in just his t-shirt, confronts the clear evidence that he’s wasting away. There’s no more excess to be shed and he’s now losing muscle mass. No problem passing for a refugee on that point, he thinks to himself tiredly. 

The bandages keep the worst of his injuries hidden still but the blood still seeps through and he feels the infection burning in him. He tells himself he just has to make this one last walk to the border and then it will be over, one way or another. 

With that, Quinn takes a deep breath, follows his team out into the open, towards the stream of humanity on the road. 

*

The border crossing is like any other military-policed one, heavily guarded, soldiers with automatic weapons lining both sides of the road. The refugees in front of them push until rebel soldiers step in and form lanes, create some order. Quinn grits his teeth and soldiers on, nearly sure they will not make it through the crossing. 

But however a slim chance it was, they had to go for it. So they file into the same lane, now weaponless, with only fear holding their prisoner to them. 

Right away Quinn thinks they’ve taken the wrong lane, that the rebel soldier acting as a border agent is being particularly scrupulous. Every refugee was being closely examined, the border guard clearly looking for something. 

Most likely an American team, with a IS prisoner, Quinn thinks with a mental sigh. To make it so far and get captured by rebel soldiers, sold to Assad, beheaded by the IS. He’s too fucking tired to keep dealing with this shit, he thinks. He needs a fucking break. 

Which was what he was fucking trying to do, why he had gone back stateside at all. 

And now he’s here, at the Syrian border, thinking about committing suicide by cop.

Quinn forces himself to take a painful breath, calm the fuck down. Makes himself ready for whatever might be coming when he walks up to the border guard. 

He goes first, to get it over with. Approaches the rebel soldier, seemingly barely out of his teens. Doesn’t look at the AK-47 holds casually. 

The soldier eyes him up and down, forces eye contact. He does a decent job of conveying strength and Quinn makes himself act like a refugee, shrinks against the face of power.

The soldier doesn’t say anything, just gives Quinn a hard look that clearly means ‘don’t move’ and then strides off. 

Quinn takes the second to breathe, to control his racing thoughts. There are no options anyways. They can’t start a firefight with this many civilians around. And even if they could, they were outnumbered twenty to one. At least. 

So it comes down to this - be captured and await whatever tortures that might bring. Or take the first exit available, at least die trying. 

He closes his eyes, runs through his mental procedures. Stays calm, in the moment. Tells himself he can end it whenever he wants, that he’s ready. 

The border guard finally comes back with a superior, an older militant, obviously hardened from a life as a rebel soldier. They speak in Arabic before the older man turns to Quinn, stares at him and scowls. 

The anticipation is becoming unbearable as Quinn awaits his fate. He tries to read the militant for any signs of what’s to come but the man is stiff, gives off no clues. 

Finally the militant speaks. 

“Peter Quinn?” he asks, with only a hint of an accent. 

Quinn barely holds onto his stony expression, can’t fathom what it could mean that the rebels are looking for him by name. Nothing good, that was for sure. 

But there’s no point in lying, so he nods. 

“Yes,” he says, bracing himself for what comes next. 

The militant reaches into his pocket and Quinn expects to see handcuffs, maybe a gun. But instead, the guy pulls out a phone, dials a number, passes it over. 

“For you,” he says with the same angry expression. 

Quinn looks at the phone, thinks how none of this makes any sense. How could they be looking for him by name? No one in Syria even knew his name. 

It makes him consider if it could be Adal on the line, the only one with this sort of ability. But something about that doesn’t feel right - Adal does not interfere, step in. Ever. Or potentially blow their cover to the rebels, to Assad, to ISIS by alerting the border. 

For all he knew, it could be Bashar al-Assad himself on the line with a personal death sentence for him and his team. 

Finally he takes the phone, puts it to his ear. Notices that his body and mind are frozen, in anticipation of the worst. 

Yet there’s still the faintest flicker of hope, the thought that miracles do happen. Because that’s what it would take now. 

Quinn tries to speak but his throat is so dry it takes him a couple sputters, and even so he can only manage a raspy croak. 

“It’s Quinn,” he says.


	8. c.iv

It’s dark again, has been for hours. Yet she only just noticed the time, realized that the office is empty.

Three am. Ten am Turkish time. And still nothing. 

Well, not completely nothing. Nilson managed to pull off his end, blew up some of Assad’s army bases and somehow got the border open by dawn. 

He had called at about midnight, told her in a pissed off tone that his teams backed the rebels with munitions and tactical support and in return the rebel border guards would let Quinn’s team through with their prisoner, initiate contact if they made it. 

But she doesn’t exactly trust Nilson, definitely doesn’t trust the word of some rebel commander guarding the Syrian border. So she’s been back at the surveillance videos, looking for any sign of him. 

There’s too many people in the videos though, hordes of refugees pushing towards the border. Carrie knows there’s no way she will see anything yet she watches one after the other until her head pounds. 

Three am. Maggie will be pissed again, she thinks to herself. Another night she’s left Frannie to her sister, another night she doesn’t make it home from the office. 

Carrie considers the couch but knows she won’t be able to sleep, no matter how emotionally and physically exhausted she is. And part of her wonders if it’s more than a need to find him, if it’s a sign of her demon acting up again. 

Carrie sighs, is irritated, impatient. Presses play on yet another video, finds herself on mental tangents, wondering if he even made it out of the mountains, if she’s been chasing ghosts this whole time. 

Which always just brings her back to regret, culpability. She pushed him and he ran. And now he’s somewhere in Syria, hurt, possibly dead. 

Her phone rings to startle her out of her thoughts and she picks it up without looking, sure it’s Maggie calling to ream her out. 

“Yes?” she answers with her usual sharp tone. 

There’s no reply, just a muffled voice and a staticky line. Which makes her look at her phone and realize that it isn’t Maggie, that the number is masked and probably not local. 

“Who is this?” she asks tersely. 

Again there’s no reply, just more undeterminable sounds, a couple of muffled Arabic words she can’t quite make out, the sound of the phone being passed around. 

And then there’s someone on the other end - she can hear shallow breathing, a raspy cough.

For a moment she thinks it’s Nilson pranking her, considers telling him to fuck off. Is on the verge of hanging up the phone when the person on the other line finally speaks and she suddenly forgets how to breathe. 

“It’s Quinn,” he says in a sand-stripped voice. 

It takes more than a moment for her brain to register what’s happening, then almost another full minute for her to believe it.

“Oh my god,” she finally manages in disbelief. “Tell me it’s really you.” 

And it’s impossible, has to be a dream. But Carrie knows she’s awake, that the phone she’s holding is real, that the voice on the other side sounds like him. 

“Fuck me,” Quinn says, the way she’s heard him say it a hundred times before. 

It is enough to thaw the ice in her chest, get her heart pumping again. Make her remember she has a plan, things to fucking say to him. 

And everything she has thought of saying floods through her mind, all the worry and fear and self-recrimination she’s been living with since he ran off. She wants to tell him how fucking worried she was, how she fucking regrets blowing him off, how she’s just thankful he’s alive. 

But of course it all jams up on her, too many emotions, too many insipid things she would never usually say. And suddenly she feels on the spot, unsure of everything, feels her anxiety pushing through. 

“That’s twice you should be dead. I’m fucking pissed, Quinn,” she snaps. Knows this isn’t the reaction she should be having, that she isn’t actually angry with him. Well, she is, but that should be besides the point. 

Quinn doesn’t reply, just breathes shallowly on the other side while she tries to contain her worry, her tendency to overreact. Tells herself not to lose it on him, that a lot of effort went into making this happen. 

“Fuck, Carrie,’ he finally says. “What the hell happened? How is this possible?” 

And that at least makes her smile briefly, because she doesn’t think it’s possible either. That her plan would actually work, down to the details. 

“It’s a long story, I’ll tell you when we have more time,” she replies, remembering that she still has something to get done. “But for now I just need one thing.” 

Again Quinn’s quiet on the other end and she imagines him at the border, ragged after a month of battle and hard travel in a war zone. 

“Is your team lead with you?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” Quinn replies, makes it sound like a question. 

“Go get him,” Carrie demands. 

To his credit, Quinn doesn’t ask her why and she hears some muffled discussion between him and the border guards, then a set of approaching footsteps. 

“He’s here,” Quinn says, sounding tense.

“Okay, now tell him you’re done,” she says firmly, ready for a battle. 

There’s a long pause, an irritable sigh. 

“Seriously, Carrie?” he finally replies tiredly. “This can wait.” 

“No it can’t,” she snaps back. “You think I made this happen so I can lose you a month from now on another suicide op?” 

At least that shuts him up, she can hear him breathing irritably on the other end. And she thinks how this conversation should have gone but knows it would never happen like that. Not between them. 

“Alright then,” Quinn finally says. “I’m done, I’m out. You got that Rob? This is it.” 

He sounds sincere but Carrie’s heard it all before, knows that he will eventually fall back into it. Just like every addict, she thinks. 

“Now give him the phone,” Carrie demands, all business. 

Quinn makes a slightly strangled sound of annoyance. 

“Jesus, Carrie. Can’t we just talk for a minute,” he asks, again sounding tired, spent.

“Give him the phone, Quinn,” she replies. 

Quinn exhales irritably, then she hears the phone changing hands. 

“Yes?” says a gruff voice on the other end. “It’s Rob.” 

“Tell me he’s out,” Carrie states firmly. “Do not argue with me on this. You have seen what I can do, how far I’m willing to go.”

“It’s not my call,” Rob replies, giving her the usual bullshit. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Carrie spits back, incredulous. “You should all be dead. This was a suicide operation. If that’s what you want then fine. But Quinn is out. I don’t give a fuck about you or Adal or your mission. And I will make your life hell unless I get what I want. So now. Tell me he’s done.” 

Rob doesn’t answer for awhile, then finally he replies, sounds somewhat defeated. 

“Okay, he’s out. We will get him home,” he says. 

Carrie makes an exasperated sound, somewhere between a snort and sigh. 

“Fuck that, I’ve been getting him home. Now pass me back to him,” she says, a bit less pissed off now that her plan seems to be working out.

Again the phone is passed over and she hears Quinn breathing on the other end but he doesn’t say anything. 

And of course she doesn’t know what to say either, is not sure if Quinn is pissed at her now, if he even wants to talk to her anymore. Knows he can be temperamental, sensitive. 

“So should I just let them all rib you now?” she jokes, awkwardly. 

Again Quinn doesn’t say anything and Carrie sighs internally, thinks this is not how she wanted it to go. And she knows she can’t keep him at the border too long, that the guards are not happy with this arrangement in the first place. 

She’s waited a long time for this, wills herself not to fuck it up. 

“Are you okay, Quinn?” she asks, finally letting the worry through to her voice. 

“I’m fine, Carrie,” he replies irritably.

“Don’t lie to me,” she says, wondering if she can get through his defenses anymore. For a stoic guy, Quinn had always been fairly open with her, had let her see his vulnerable side. But now she wonders if he’s shut that door, if he’s really done with her. 

Quinn sighs, waits a breath or two. 

“I’ll be alright,” he finally says, with the edge taken out of his tone. 

“You better be,” she replies, hoping he can hear the plea in her voice. Because she really does need him to be okay, to make it out. Even if he takes off on her again, if nothing works out for them. She just needs him to make it out of this one alive, so she doesn’t spend the rest of her life knowing she sent another man she loved to his death. 

“Look, Carrie,” he says after another pause. “I’m sorry.” 

She shakes her head, exhales loudly. 

“No sorries, Quinn,” she says. “Just quit the team and make it home. That’s all I expect. In one piece, no diversions. Okay?”

Quinn almost laughs, she can hear it in his voice. And she remembers again why she’s so irrationally fond of him, why she goes through the bother. 

“Yes, Carrie,” he replies with military crispness. 

And she smiles at that, reminds herself that she’s actually fucking talking to him, that she achieved the near impossible. 

“Hey Quinn,” Carrie says, then pauses.

“I’m really glad you’re alive. Come home, please,” she finishes, as honestly as she can. 

Quinn actually laughs this time, and she can hear him take a raspy breath. 

“I don’t really have any other choice do I?” he replies, mock seriously. 

Carrie smiles again, thinks to herself at least he gets it now. 

“Call me from the safe house,” she says, sensing their time is up. 

“Yeah,” Quinn says. 

And she thinks that’s it, waits to hear him hang up. But he doesn’t right away, she can hear him breathing. 

“Thanks, Carrie,” he says after a long while. “I owe you.” 

“You don’t owe me anything,” she replies. “Just get to the safe house and get well. Now go, I’ll be waiting for your call.” 

“Okay,” he replies simply and then ends the call. Leaving Carrie sitting there, still a little stunned. 

Mostly she can’t believe he’s alive, that she just talked to him. It seems unbelievable now that it’s over, as if it really was just a dream. And it even went mostly according to plan, hadn’t ended in a fight. 

Carrie takes a deep breath, gets up and walks around in a state of euphoric anxiety. To have confirmed that he’s alive, and out of Syria. It was more than she could have expected, asked for. Still she knows nothing is for certain, not until she sees him, makes sure he’s home. 

* 

She’s been sitting, thinking too many thoughts for hours now. Sees dawn breaking through her window, feels a headache coming on. 

Waiting is becoming difficult already and it’s only been a few hours since he was at the border. But she has nothing else to think about, can’t concentrate on anything until she hears from him again. 

Again Carrie wonders if all the sleepless nights searching for Quinn are just another manifestation of her disease, if she might be starting to lose it. She’s thrown everything she’s had at this, hasn’t had an obsession like it since the early years with Brody. Made impulsive moves, like crossing the line with Saul. She knows she can’t go back to him now, that it’s over. 

Then she thinks to herself that she had nothing else to focus on, had needed something to latch onto after the shitshow of Islamabad, the trauma of it all. That and the fact that she does love him in a way. Not a picket fence start a family kind of way. It was just too absurd. They are a volatile mix, at once attractive yet destructive. And she can’t lose him to this sensitive stubborn streak in him, the one that pushes him to absolve himself by soldiering on. 

She’s staring at the phone, willing it to ring when she hears footsteps approaching her office. It’s still early, the office nearly empty. So she has a good sense of who it is. 

And she knows he’s going to be pissed. 

“You’ve really fucking crossed the line now, Carrie,” Adal fumes, slamming the door shut. 

Carrie turns, lets her own anger ramp up in anticipation of this confrontation. 

“All I did was save their lives,” she retorts with a sneer. 

“You interfered with an ongoing special ops mission,” Adal replies. “Outed it to Nilson, to Assad, to the IF. You should have just gone to the fucking press and broadcasted it live on al-Jazeera.” 

“Fuck you, Adal,” Carrie fires back. “You just wanted Quinn to die to teach me a fucking lesson. Do you know how fucked up that is? And this is just the shit we do to each other. It’s all lies, it doesn’t do any fucking good. I’m not doing this any more.”

“Listen to you,” Adal sneers. “You sound just like him. Repentant, a sinner. What did you do that was so bad? You killed terrorists, saved Saul.”

“And lost thirty six lives, Sandy Bachman, Aayan. It could have been more, if it wasn’t for Quinn,” she snaps back. “And then you make a fucking deal with Haqqani. You tell me that isn’t fucked up.”  
“It’s what needed to be done,” Adal replies casually. 

Carrie knows it’s pointless to argue with him, that the man doesn’t have a soul. But she can’t help it, finds him infuriatingly smug, stubborn. 

“Just like leaving Quinn’s team to die? That’s what needed to be done?” she asks sharply. 

Adal gives her a dark look. 

“You, of all people, should know that sacrifices have to be made. We do not showcase our special ops to the fucking enemy no matter what. Even if it means a team is left to survive on its own.” he growls. 

“And by survive you mean die,” Carrie says bluntly. 

“Peter knew what he signed up for, Carrie,” Adal replies. “He knows the rules of the game.” 

“Well, I signed him out,” Carrie retorts. 

“That’s not up to you,” Adal says briskly. “He’s part of the team.” 

“Not anymore,” she replies. “I arranged it. He’s out.” 

But Adal doesn’t give an inch, still looks too smug for her liking. Carrie feels a slight anxiety growing, knows that there’s always ways for things to go sideways. 

“And I said, it’s not up to you, Carrie,” he growls.

“Give it up, Adal,” Carrie says. “I got him out, he’s in Turkey and you have your fucking ISIS prize. Now he needs to be extracted to Ramstein - he’s injured. So you can’t send him anywhere right now anyways.” 

“You don’t know what he needs,” Adal fires back. 

And that headache that was already coming on has hit full force, pulsates in her temple as she argues with Adal. 

“I know he doesn’t need to die for this,” Carrie snaps. “Especially now that he’s done.” 

“He’ll never be done,” Adal states firmly. “He made that choice a long time ago.” 

“Fuck you,” she spits. “He’s made a new choice. He’s out and I’m going to make sure he makes it home.” 

Adal just keeps giving her that disarming smug look, doesn’t change his expression at all.

“You shouldn’t have fucked with my operation, Carrie,” he says matter-of-factly. “I would have thought you would have learned that by now.” 

Her headache has now increased to epic proportions as her anxiety pushes into her temples with the realization that everything she’s done could still be sabotaged by Adal. She knows it’s no idle threat, that Adal has every resource behind him, can fuck her over easily if that’s what he wants. And judging from this latest visit, he will do anything in his power to prevent Quinn from making it home. 

It makes her explode internally, all her emotions and fears blowing up in her chest until she suddenly feels short of breath, her anger pushed to the max. 

“You’re going to let him die just to make a fucking point. Do you understand how fucked up that is?” Carrie yells, knowing she’s repeating herself but needing the release before she actually explodes. 

“You don’t understand, Carrie,” Adal replies calmly. “He was dead the minute he met you. He lost his focus because of you. He left because of you. He will die because of you.” 

And she knows it’s the way Adal plays the game - all in, no holds barred. But it’s still hard to hear it, especially because she knows there’s at least a bit of truth in what he’s saying. Quinn would have been gone, safe, if it hadn’t been for her. 

It’s why she needs to get him out, make sure of this one thing before she figures out what’s in her own future, what she will do now that she’s burnt all her bridges at the CIA. 

“He is not going to fucking die, Adal,” she says, seething with anger. “I fucking guarantee it.” 

Adal doesn’t reply, just gives her a knowing look, turns and walks out of her office. Leaves her with a head full of doubts, no matter her guarantee. 

She starts to count back the hours, wonders why the hell she hasn’t heard back from Quinn yet. The safe house should have been only a few miles from the border - even injured he should have made it there by now. Unless Adal somehow intervened already, if he diverted the team to another location. 

The real problem is she’s used all her favours, pissed everyone off. Knows there’s no way she will get a phone number for the safe house, that Nilson will laugh at her if she even tries to ask for anything else. And she’s gone too far with Saul already, pushed past the breaking point of their relationship - something she didn’t think would ever happen. But that was before Adal got to him too, pushed Saul into his soul-sucking deal. 

Carrie paces her office, hands on her pulsating temples. Feels helpless, anxious. Exactly what Adal wanted, she thinks. 

But she can’t help but let the anxiety run rampant, wonders if Quinn even made it past the border point, if Adal somehow made contact with Rob, ordered the team away from the safe house. So many things could have happened in the past few hours, everything occurring thousands of miles away. She wonders if she’s talked to him for the last time, thinks she would have been nicer to him if she’d known, would have said the things she’s still afraid to say. 

To have done it all for nothing, watched hundreds of hours of video, called in every favour, saved his fucking life from halfway across the world. So much worry, stress. Lack of sleep, nights away from Frannie. 

Possibly all undone by Adal. Because of this grudge he holds against her, because he thinks she dismantled his perfect soldier. 

And there’s nothing worse than being in the dark, not knowing what’s going on. Head pounding, anxiety going way overboard, waiting for a call that may never come.

* 

It’s dark again. Carrie can no longer remember the last time she slept, hasn’t seen her child in days now. Maggie’s given up on calling after leaving about a dozen messages, must think she’s taken off again, or that she’s off her meds.

She hasn’t stopped pacing her office all day, all night - trying to come up with some solution, a way around her situation. But she’s shut all the fucking doors just getting this far - is all the way at the end, coming out without what she wanted. It’s enough to drive her to drink but she’s trying not to do that anymore. And on the off chance that Quinn does make contact she needs to be sober, ready for anything. 

The anger, rage that’s been coursing through her all day rises again. A response to feeling so helpless, defeated by Adal. Carrie picks up a mug, tests it for heft. A few office objects have met their end that day, achieved brief flight before smashing against the wall. 

She’s about to throw the mug, just to watch it shatter when her phone rings, startles her out of it. 

Carrie picks it up warily, does not recognize the incoming number. It’s international, but not a blocked number, can’t be the safehouse. Possibly Nilson calling back to tell her fuck you yet again. Or some new complication for her already overloaded mind. 

She looks at the phone for a moment, considers not answering though she knows she will. Picks it up, puts it to her ear. 

“Hello?” she says cautiously, hears only a ragged breath. 

“Who is this?” she asks, after a long silence. 

Finally there’s a cough, someone there. 

“It’s me,” Quinn says, his voice gritty, made of gravel. 

“Jesus, Quinn,” Carrie replies sharply. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, a bit too quickly. “No callouts from the safe house though. And I couldn’t get away to find a phone until now. Adal’s pissed.” 

“Yeah, you can say that,” she answers with a huff. 

“Shit,” Quinn replies. “You’ve seen him? What does he want?”

Carrie sighs, feels the constant pulsing in her head get stronger yet again. 

“To fuck you over, to leave you to die,” she says angrily. “To have you go out as his guy.” 

Quinn makes a strangled noise, a knowing groan. 

“After all this shit,” he mutters. “It’s not even about the fucking prisoner.” 

“I’m going to fucking hurt him,” Carrie seethes back. “Somehow, sometime, I will fuck him over, ruin him, fucking kill the black bastard.” 

But Quinn doesn’t get worked up, instead she hears a muffled laugh. And she’s about to lose it on him, thinks he’s laughing at her when she realizes her emotions are more than a little out of whack, that she needs to fucking calm down. 

“You’re going to have to beat me to him,” Quinn finally says quietly. “This is my fault, Carrie. Don’t go after Adal, he will hurt you without a second thought. I got myself into this, I will get myself out.” 

“Like he’s already hurt you?” Carrie replies sharply. “And how exactly are you going to self-extract from Turkey without any support? It’s a long fucking walk even for someone who isn’t moving like an old disabled man.” 

Quinn pauses, doesn’t respond for long enough that she reminds herself to go easy on him, that he’s had a rough go. Even if it’s not in her nature to do so. 

But when he responds, it’s again not what she expects. 

“How do you know how I’m moving?” he asks, a bit warily. 

She thinks he should have figured that part out by now, forgets for a moment that he’s had a lot of other things on his mind. 

“There’s video. A lot of fucking videos. And you know how I find you? You’re the one that can barely walk,” she snaps at him. “So I know you’re not fucking fine, Quinn.” 

“What video?” he asks again, somehow stuck on the least important point of it all. 

“What does it matter, Quinn?” she says. “There’s video. I see a lot of it. And you’re in some of it. How the hell else could any of this happened?” 

Again Quinn is quiet, doesn’t say anything for a while. She can almost hear him thinking, putting it all together in his head. And this time she remembers that he’s had more immediate concerns, like staying alive while injured and on the run in a war zone. And she remembers how improbable it is that he is still alive, that she’s talking to him on the phone. 

“Fuck,” she mutters. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I know you’ve been through a lot. I’m just fucking worried that it’s all been for nothing, that Adal is going to fuck you over no matter what I do.” 

Quinn kind of laughs again, and she can picture him so clearly, that wry pissed off look on his face. 

“Shit, Carrie,” he says. “You don’t have to apologize to me. You’ve fucking saved our asses and I don’t even understand how.”

Now it’s Carrie’s turn to huff a laugh, thinks to herself she doesn’t quite know how she pulled it off either. Just that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer, that this was her last job before she figured out what was next in life. 

“It’s a long story,” she finally says. “I’ll tell you when you’re back.” 

Quinn doesn’t reply and she wonders what the hell she said now. Thinks to herself she’s forgotten how tightly wound he can be, seemingly much too sensitive to be an assassin. 

This time she waits for him to talk, knows he will eventually come up with what he wants to say. 

“Why bother?” he asks. 

And for a moment she thinks he means why bother telling him the story, does not pick up on what he’s asking. But then she hears his tone, understands what he’s saying. 

“I keep asking myself that,” she admits. “And it always comes down to this. You came back for me when I was at my worst. And I can’t lose you to this, not after everything that’s happened.” 

Quinn exhales sharply. 

“I fucking ran, Carrie. You’re off the hook,” he says. 

“You were scared,” she replies. “I was too. We would be a fucking disaster, Quinn. We both know that. But that doesn’t mean you can run off and die.” 

“Looks like I did it anyways,” Quinn replies darkly. 

And she thinks it can’t play out that way, that this is one battle she has to win. Because by now she knows it will be her last and she’s not going out on a losing note. 

“No fucking way,” she argues. “You are going to get out. You’re so fucking close. I know you, Quinn. You can make this happen.” 

Quinn sighs, sounds exhausted. 

“Maybe I can’t, Carrie,” he says. “Maybe this was my last shitty choice.” 

“Fuck, Quinn!” she snaps. “Obviously you didn’t hear me. You are not allowed to die out there.” 

He laughs and she thinks he’s going to ask her what she’s going to do about it. Which would pretty much be the end of it because she has run out of resources, has no power over the situation anymore. 

But instead she hears him take a breath, exhale slowly. 

“Okay,” he says. “I won’t.” 

From his tone she can tell he means it, knows he wouldn’t lie to her anyways. If anything, things are too bare between them. 

“What are you going to do?” she asks, not sure she wants to know the answer. 

“I don’t know,” Quinn replies. “Whatever I have to.” 

“Quinn, you’re hurt,” she says. “Don’t do anything stupid.” 

Which she realizes is idiotic, that any attempt to take off from his group, escape Adal’s grasp will likely involve doing many dangerous, stupid things. That what she’s demanding of him necessitates a heightened risk of death. 

But he’s going to be alone, in pain. Without backup or cover, possibly pursued by Adal. So she can’t help but worry, wonder how the hell he will manage to stay alive. 

“I seem to only do stupid things,” he says with a sigh. “I’ve got to get back, Carrie. I’ll either make it or I won’t but I’ll do my best.”

She senses he’s about to hang up, realizes this may be the last time she ever talks to him. Tries to come up with something to say, but can’t put any of it into words, knows it will come out all wrong. Is just stuck with her emotion in her throat, no way to express it. 

And then he suddenly says it for her, comes through for her yet again. 

“If I never see you again, Carrie,” he mutters. “I’ll always be thankful I met you, and I’m sorry for everything I fucked up.”

It’s exactly what she wanted to express, and she’s just about to say ‘me too,’ when he ends the call, leaves her with nothing but silence and a promise.


	9. q.v

The darkness comes and goes, a blend of reality and what’s in his head. Often he doesn’t know which is which, doesn’t recognize the intermittent moments of drug dazed consciousness.

Quinn thinks he’s been there just a few days, but realizes he has no way of knowing. The guys are rarely around when he arouses, though his bandages are always fresh and there’s water and food beside his dingy sick bed. 

It makes him wonder what they are doing, why he hasn’t been med-evaced to Ramstein yet. Though he thinks he’s getting better lying in bed mainlining antibiotics and painkillers instead of running around in a war zone, he is only a liability to the team now, needs to be extracted. 

Quinn groans and shifts as the pain starts to return, remembers he hasn’t had a shot of morphine in awhile now. It starts in his hip, pulsating with every beat of his heart, then moves up into his chest, burns in his ribs. Though JC’s final prognosis was surprisingly hopeful - possible full recovery from the infected bullet hole in his hip, maybe some lingering issues with the scar tissue built up around the shrapnel wounds in his chest - there were still a lot of ways in which his body felt completely fucked up.

He tries to sit up but doesn’t quite make it, can’t push past the explosions in his torso, timed with every little movement. Falls back prone on the thin mattress, gasps and swears with the pain of impact. 

It’s almost worse now that he’s lying down, not moving his muscles anymore. They’ve all stiffened up to the extreme, from lack of blood, water, nourishment. And with no one immediately trying to kill him he’s become impatient, wants to know what’s coming up next, why he isn’t in Germany already. 

Quinn takes a deep breath and winces, remembers that even the basic functions of life are still excruciating without the drugs. He wonders if JC has forgotten about him, if he’s going to have to make effort to get upright, inject himself. All the time knowing he wouldn’t bother, will take the pain until he finally passes out. 

He does wonder what JC is up to though, thinks it’s unlike the medic to neglect his patient. It’s not like he has much else to deal with now that they’re at the safe house -none of the other guys took much of a hit and their prisoner is even looking healthier after a few square meals, some days of rest. 

But Quinn knows he’s still somewhere on the brink, that the decision on his living or dying has yet to occur. If he doesn’t get out of this hot dank house soon there’s a good chance he is not going to make it at all, knows there is some sort of internal damage still happening. Though he has to admit the possibility of survival is a shit ton more likely now than it was just a few days ago. 

Lying there, nothing else to think about, he still can’t quite fathom it. Cannot figure out how she did it. Can’t figure out why either. 

He tries to remember what she said, knows only that she talked about seeing him on video. Understands she must have watched a lot of fucking video to be able to positively identify him from thousands of miles away. And, like every time he thinks about this, Quinn still can’t quite wrap his head around it, can’t believe she made the effort, wonders what the fuck that could mean. 

She did it for him. And that’s something he’s still not willing to accept. Carrie. Who only thinks of herself. He wonders what she’s given up to get him this far, knows she must have already called in every favour she’s got. 

It eats at him that he’s not worth it, that he should have died for his weakness. He doesn’t deserve to be alive, to have another chance. In many ways he’s not even sure he wants another go at it, is loaded down with personal recrimination, self-hate. 

The pain is coursing throughout his body now, tendrils of fire licking at every nerve ending. And he thinks how pathetically fitting it would be to die alone in a safe house, after being miraculously saved by the one person that should definitely have given up on him. 

The thought of seeing her again flits through his feverish mind and though he wants it he knows it can only end in disappointment. He’s lost his will, can’t see a future without this life that he hates. And she will see it right away, will rightfully be disgusted with his weakness, all his failings. 

He pictures her standing there, telling him exactly how pathetic he is. But imaginary Carrie doesn’t play her role correctly, listens to him about as well as real Carrie. 

“No fucking way,” she says. “You are going to get out. You’re so fucking close. I know you, Quinn. You can make this happen.” 

He remembers those are her exact words from their phone call, closes his eyes and feels a headache coming on. Too much thinking, not enough drugs, he tells himself. 

But imaginary Carrie won’t shut up, keeps filling his mind with their conversation from earlier, will not let it go.

“Fuck, Quinn!” she snaps. “Obviously you didn’t hear me. You are not allowed to die out there.” 

And he knows he told her he wouldn’t die, that he would do his best. He even mostly meant it at the time, had been buoyed by fucking talking to her, realizing what she had done for him. 

But now its three days later and he hasn’t moved more than two feet from the bed. Knows there’s something bad going on inside but hasn’t told JC about it yet. So if he’s going to make good on his promise to Carrie it’s going to take some doing, a lot of help. But he knows Adal isn’t exactly on his side, isn’t sure where Rob sits on the whole situation, not even after hearing the team lead swear to Carrie that he would help get Quinn out. 

All of these thoughts wash in and out of his head as he finally feels the pain push him past the barrier, sees the unsteady dots that usually indicate incoming unconsciousness. And his last thought before Quinn hits the darkness is that he’s really fucking tired, hopes to be out for a long time. 

*

He wakes to the jab of a needle, the familiar feeling of morphine taking its course. Looks up to see JC wearing a grim expression, can tell that the medic is pissed off.

“Come in here and look at him yourself,” JC hollers out towards the other room. “There’s just no fucking way.” 

Quinn holds back a groan, wonders what the hell they could be arguing about now. It was never a good sign when the guys were yelling at each other, usually meant that nothing else worked out either. 

“You heard the order,” Rob calls back. “He was making it when we got here, he’ll just have to make it the rest of the way.”

Well, that doesn’t sound very fucking promising, thinks Quinn. Wonders what the hell has gone down in the time he was out. 

JC finishes with the morphine, gives all the bandages a once over with the same grim look. He doesn’t seem to notice that Quinn is conscious, that he’s just having a hard time keeping his eye lids open. 

“Give it up, Rob,” JC says with a shake of his head. “He’s fucking tough but he’s not going to walk out of here tomorrow, maybe not ever unless we find some better antibiotics than the shit that was left for us here.” 

That doesn’t sound so good either. Was what he’d basically been thinking to himself, but it was another thing to hear the medic say it. 

“You heard the boss,” Rob replies roughly. “He was pretty fucking clear on taking him with us.” 

It’s ridiculous in the extreme - Quinn knows Adal would have gotten a debrief documenting the team’s condition, detailing injuries, current capacity. And there is no way he should be part of any kind of mission, is nothing but a liability now. 

Eyes closed, Quinn finally hears JC walk out of the room, tries to listen through the morphine as the conversation continues on the other side of the wall. 

From what he can make out in his opiate haze, they’ve gotten marching orders. Back to Syria for another target. Rob sounds ready to roll, is talking about getting moving again the next morning. 

The other guys don’t sound nearly as eager to move out, JC still arguing loudly that this is even stupider, more dangerous than their last mission. Which was really saying something considering they should have been dead at least twice during that op.

And that wasn’t while carrying around some total dead weight, a mostly useless team member. 

Quinn lies back, tries to think of what the fuck he can do. Not much, given his pathetic physical condition, his defeated state of mind. 

Any hope he had ever had of surviving this had evaporated as the days slid by without a medical transport, no word of extraction. He thinks about Carrie, wonders what happened after he talked to her last. Knows that Adal is behind this all, can imagine how pleased his boss is with himself. 

He pictures a confrontation in her office, a lot of yelling, possibly things thrown. In his imagination Carrie is livid, liquid fire. Like that day in the control room, when everything had completely gone to shit. 

Then Quinn remembers her saying she was going to hurt Adal, and he pictures that too - Carrie confronting the evil bastard, getting up in his face. And then suddenly Quinn wonders if Adal did something to her - pictures him threatening her, his hands on her neck. And it’s like a shock to the chest, a jolt of pure hatred. 

Fuck, he thinks to himself. It’s somehow still there, has survived his total defeat. He doesn’t want anything for himself anymore except some rest, the death he deserves. But she still has her way with him, makes his existence just a little more of a necessity. 

And so Quinn stops to consider his situation plainly, even though he knows the odds are against him in every direction. He is operating at less than fifty percent capacity but at least his main problem, the infected bullet hole in his hip, hasn’t deteriorated in his time at the safehouse. So, technically, he could possibly walk out of there. 

Then the question of where to go, how to get there. Walking anywhere would take him a long fucking time right about now. But until a more viable option came along, that was all he had. 

He considers briefly that Adal will send a team after him, wonders if he might even send Quinn’s own guys after him, make them kill their own deserter. It’s just the kind of shit his evil mind comes up with, Quinn thinks. 

if nothing else, thinking about Adal always gets his blood pumping, makes Quinn remember the feeling of being alive. It’s been a long time, he thinks. Well, there was the brief time in Islamabad, he supposes, when he was looking for revenge. But other than that, it’s been a long constant dullness, the bleakness of a life he can’t escape.

The spark he feels within isn’t much, just enough that Quinn remembers his stubborn spirit. It’s both a blessing and a curse, he thinks. Always just enough to keep him going. 

Just like Carrie, he realizes. When he thinks he’s hit the end, he always finds her there. 

And this time he finds her at home, stateside. Sees her in his mind - yelling, screaming, crying as Adal laughs in her face. After everything she managed to do, everything she pulled off from thousands of miles away. So much effort put into such a futile, stupid gesture. So much time spent on a worthless cause. 

It’d be so easy to let the self-pity carry him away, Quinn realizes. Realistically, he could be dead in a few days if he really stopped trying. And Carrie would never have to know how he gave up, would just think Adal had him killed. 

His depressed mind makes a good argument, he thinks to himself. Yet it doesn’t completely suppress the little burn within, the flickering fire. No matter how he dampens it with hopelessness, Quinn knows he can’t just lay down and die. Not after what she’s done for him. And it’s just not who he is - like her, he isn’t one to give up. 

Quinn groans internally, realizes the decision has been made. Now he just has to stay conscious long enough to formulate a plan for what’s likely to be his last days. 

*

It’s dark when he wakes again at the planned time, thankful that a life of middle of the night operations has left him with an infallible internal alarm. The only sounds he hears are Rob’s distinct snores, the weird half breaths that Andy takes in deep sleep. 

Perfect, Quinn thinks. For a crew of special ops guys, his team sleeps hard. It was one of the things he was counting on for his plan to succeed. 

He sits up, finds a pile of his clothes and weapons conveniently stacked at the foot of his dingy bed. That part he had also predicted - that Rob would win the argument, that the team would be taking off in the morning, that Quinn would be expected to play his role. 

So Rob had put his gear on what had started to resemble his deathbed and his team lead’s implication was clear. Time to pack up and move out, be a good soldier. 

Quinn looks at his stuff, tries to take a deep breath but almost chokes on it. He still forgets his chest is fucked up, that he hasn’t been breathing right since he fell off the ruins as they were bombed to the ground. 

But he manages to swallow back his pain, grits his teeth and rides the wave of nausea that travels from his gut to his head. Takes another minute to settle himself, then starts in on the difficult job of getting dressed. 

Quinn strips down slowly, silently. It’s the most he’s moved in days and he does not feel at all steady on his feet. Pulling his dirt and blood soaked commando pants on over the bandage on his hip leaves him sweaty and breathless but he feels a bit better just being outfitted. He hates being incapacitated, dressed like a invalid - at least this way he will go out looking the part, he thinks to himself darkly.

Putting a shirt on is nearly as difficult but he’s ready for the pain, clenches his jaw as he pulls it over his bandage-wrapped torso. Not too bad, Quinn thinks as he lets a quiet gasp escape. But if he’s having a hard time just putting clothes on, he knows he needs some more painkillers now, enough to tide him through until he’s well on his way. 

Finally dressed, Quinn picks up his bag, looks inside. Sees some ammo, a sidearm, some grenades and explosives, a few MREs. It’ll do, he thinks to himself as he straps the gun to himself, grabs his M4 carbine and slings it over his shoulder. 

Geared up and on his feet for the first time in days, Quinn feels off kilter, puts his hand down on the bed to keep his balance. A bead of sweat drips down onto the collar of his shirt, soaks in as he pushes off and takes an unsteady step. 

Pain shoots through his hip, sets his entire left side on fire. He had forgotten what it was like to walk on it and almost stumbles, only manages to keep things silent by latching onto the doorframe and swallowing back his gasps. 

Fuck, he thinks to himself. It may not be as easy as he thought to get out of the safehouse without waking the guys. But he’s already up and there are no other options so he just bites down hard on his lip, soldiers on as he always has. 

Limping, half-dragging his lame leg as slowly and quietly as he can, Quinn slips into the other room, heads towards the shelf he spotted JC’s medical supplies on when he took a peek earlier. Luckily it’s on the closer side of the room, away from where the guys have been sleeping. 

A few halting steps and he’s nearly there, is reaching out to grab the bag of supplies and meds when his foot kicks something solid, almost making him trip. 

Quinn grabs onto the shelf, miraculously doesn’t fall or yell out. Looks down to see what he kicked and sees a human figure stirring, starting to sit up. 

Fuck, he thinks again. Knows that whoever it is was lying there waiting for him, knows that his attempt is over before it even began. 

He waits for whoever it is to speak, wake everyone up. But whoever it is doesn’t say anything, even stands up completely silently. 

It’s still very dark but Quinn can just manage to make out JC’s long lean face, the straggly hair they always rag on him about. He can tell the medic is looking at him with concern, wonders what JC’s choice will be. 

They make eye contact and Quinn can tell his teammate is still deciding what to do, figuring out where his loyalty lies. Quinn looks hard at JC, tries to wordlessly impress upon the medic that he has to leave, that he’s done his time. 

He knows JC is a soldier, that he would never abandon the guys, would never condone deserting. But of all the guys, he is the only one has a sense of how bad off Quinn is, that there is no way he is going to make it through another mission.

So Quinn holds his breath, waits for his fate to be decided. They stand face to face for over a minute and then finally JC looks over at the other guys, his body language softening. 

Quinn realizes he’s made it past the first hurdle, that JC isn’t going to raise the alarm. Instead, the medic gives him a worried look, reaches over to hand him a package from amongst the medical supplies.

Quinn gives his teammate a look of pure gratitude, a silent thanks. Puts the package in his bag, reaches out to shake hands, say goodbye. 

JC surprises him by pulling him into a brief embrace, close enough to whisper in his ear. 

“You’ve always had my back,” he says. “I’ll do what I can.” 

Quinn nods, pushes back the emotion invading his chest. Thinks this is not how he pictured leaving the team. Then realizes running off in the middle of the night is really the perfect ending to a career in the dark. 

He steps away from JC, doesn’t look back as he limps towards the door, slips into an uncertain future.

*

The air is still cool, dawn just starting to show. Quinn has shot himself full of morphine and is feeling correspondingly better. He’s able to gimp along at a decent rate, has full use of his upper body except for being so fucking sore. Not at full capacity, not by a long shot. But not completely done for, now that he was out of that fucking safe house, away from the dingy sickbed. 

Yeah, right, thinks Quinn. Now he’s just on the run, alone and ill. He knows Adal will send someone after him, will need a team to confirm his fate. He just hopes it’s not his own team. But then again that was exactly the shit Adal does, little power plays, lessons taught. 

By dawn he has put a few hours between him and the safe house, estimates he’s putting in a pace of three miles an hour.The effort has pushed him into a cold sweat, enough to remind him that he’s weak as fuck, has to find a way to balance moving forward and conserving energy. 

He’s nominally heading towards the only US air base in Turkey, about a hundred and fifty miles away. At his current pace he thinks it’s possible to make it in four or five days, slow and steady. 

That is, if he isn’t dead by that time, taken out as a deserter. Which, truthfully, he understands. It was part of the deal, you can’t just up and leave. Not with his skill set, the shit he knows. 

And that part depended on the guys - how quickly they inform their boss of Quinn’s departure, if they give him a good head start. 

Quinn wonders if the air force base really is the best place to go, thinks it’s too predictable, that Adal will look for him there. But he doesn’t have many choices, no friends in this country. Not many friends anywhere, he thinks wryly. No wonder. 

At least he has one that still gives a shit about things, he thinks. It’s one of the things he actually likes about her - that she cares, puts her fucking heart into it. Because he’s been so cold, has forgotten what it’s like to care.

It’s what had surprised him the most about working with Carrie - that it made him feel things again. Now to be on the receiving end, it’s not something he’s used to. To be cared about, to be responsible to someone. It’s been a long time. 

Quinn sighs, decides he should still head for the air base, that some insinuations, top level name-dropping and being an injured American operative might get him a flight out of Turkey before Adal figures out where he’s gone. Even if his boss finds him there, he can’t exactly execute Quinn so obviously, right on the base. So it buys him time, and really is his only hope. 

Quinn stops for a moment, looks around to orientate himself, take a drink of water. It’s not good that he already feels weak, nauseous. He knows it’s partly the morphine, that he’s been on it awhile, has had to increase his dose. But he needs it to get to the base, and then, one way or another, he won’t need it anymore. 

So he struggles on, makes the hours pass by practicing the almost zen state of just placing one foot in front of the other, not thinking about the pain of each step, the futility of it all. He first learned about this altered state of consciousness in special ops training, where they break you down until you are both physically and mentally exhausted, raw in every way. And in many ways it suited him perfectly - zoning out everything else, just focusing on the job. 

It had been so easy for so long, just going from job to job, pretending that he was one of the good guys. It all seems so unlikely now - Quinn can’t remember the last time he thought he was doing good in the world. For a moment he flashes back to sitting in a stakeout with Carrie, telling her that killing was like a drug. And he remembers clearly how upset he had been with her then, so scared to see her go down the rabbit hole. He had wondered if she would ever get out. And now look where he is, a hypocrite to the end, he thinks to himself. 

Quinn realizes he’s forgotten that he’s not supposed to be thinking, that it only makes him angry, aware of everything that he’s managed to fuck up. Which in turn reminds him of that he’s hit rock bottom - injured and alone, a deserter that will never escape his past. 

But at least he’s trying to make good on what’s likely to be his last promise, will go out knowing he didn’t lie to her. It’s not much, he thinks to himself. But at this point, it’s about all he can hope for, just enough to not sit down and inject himself with the rest of the morphine. It’s been a low lying temptation since he left the safe house, but again, the shred of personal pride he has left has prevented him from doing it.

So Quinn pushes on, tells himself that it will all be over soon enough anyways. Even if no one comes after him, his body is failing and his mind is weak. And the base he’s aiming for is still over a hundred miles away over mountainous terrain. 

It should be alarming that he’s so ready for it to be over, he’s never quite felt it to this degree. He’s always had a strong survival instinct, enough to get him through a lot of dangerous operations. But now he’s so fucking tired, his body failing him. And like any wounded animal he feels a strong desire just to hunker down, wait for the end. 

Quinn stops walking for a moment, looks around to regain his bearings and is surprised to see dusk starting to set in. He had been so locked in his morphined mind he hadn’t thought about the time but now that the last dose is starting to fade he realizes he should find somewhere to lay low through the night. 

Quinn scans the foothills he’s just started into, spots a natural rocky ledge with decent cover and vantage point, enough trees and shrubs to keep him out of view. Dark sets in as he limps along through a cold sweat, telling himself he can take another dose of painkillers when he gets to his chosen spot. 

He’s drenched when he finally makes it up the last rocky steps, nearly collapses as he reaches the grove of trees he plans on using for cover. He’s not sure it’s ever felt this good just to sit, not have to move. And then he reaches into his bag, pulls out a syringe and carefully snicks it into a vein. 

The ground is rocky and uncomfortable yet suddenly it’s so inviting that it feels like he’s sinking right into it as the morphine rushes through his body. For a split second Quinn feels the relief course through him, push into his head. And then there’s nothing except darkness, opium dreams. 

*

Quinn awakes hours later, the first hint of dawn just touching the mountaintops. Pain radiates through his body again and he reaches for his drug supply, is about to take another hit when he hears a low rumble, pulls out his binoculars just in time to see the humvee speeding towards him.

And he just has enough time to wonder if one of his friends is about to kill him as he presses the plunger on the syringe, readies himself for the end.


	10. c.v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two weeks one day til homeland post! two more chapters after this one (one each for q and c) and still (slim) possibilities of it being done pre season 5 episode 1. oh and epilogues! but that might still take awhile.
> 
> (also, i wrote most of this before any season 5 spoilers came out. so any plot lines that fit into the season 5 tidbits out there are coincidental)

Carrie sits at her desk, lets the angry tears stream down her face. It’s nearing midnight yet she still stares at her phone, willing it to ring with a miracle solution. But she already knows it won’t happen - every phone call, every potential ally has given her the same stonewalling response. And she knows exactly who has gotten to all of them. 

Fuck, she thinks to herself yet again. Fuck Fuck Fuck. 

Never has she felt so powerless, not even when they fired her the first time. Stymied at every turn, every door slammed shut on her face. 

She doesn’t even know where they are, just that their last known location was a safehouse in Turkey, somewhere in the region of the border crossing. And then Adal had shown up in her office and everyone else in the entire fucking Agency clammed up. Nilson won’t give her any coordinates for safe houses in the region, Damascus won’t even answer her calls. 

And now it’s been days of not knowing, wondering if he’s dead. Seething with the fire of knowing that he could easily be at Lundstahl, getting top medical care. 

She considers it murder, tells herself that Adal will get what’s coming to him. But Carrie knows she’s lying to herself, that men like Dar Adal are never held accountable for their sins. 

She also knows this pattern of behaviour in her only leads one way but she can’t help it, cannot stop obsessing over the situation. If she knew where he was she would already be there, probably fighting with him about something stupid. But she doesn’t have a single piece of information, can’t leave Langley without some more intelligence, some idea of where he’s headed. At least here she has access to CIA resources - if she flew off to Turkey she’d be on her own with no sources of info. 

But logic barely has a hold on her anymore, she wants to fucking tear everything off her walls, cry angrily until she’s empty, rid of feeling. To have spent so much fucking effort, to have cared so fucking much. Carrie’s exhausted - mentally, physically, emotionally. And she knows exactly where this is going to end up. Even on her meds, things never turn out well when she’s this wound up, strung out. 

Carrie’s running through her options yet again, then remembering that there are no options, other than quitting her job, flying off to Turkey without any fucking clues. So she’s moved onto wondering how long her savings will last her in the Middle East, if she will exhaust her means before she gets into some sort of deadly trouble. 

She’s pretty much concluded that it’s even odds when her phone rings and startles her out of her anxiety cycle, pushes her back into the present. 

Thankfully the incoming number is masked, which really just means it’s not Maggie, calling to tell her yet again that Frannie needs her, that she’s a bad mother. Not that Carrie needs to be told either of these things, she knows and agrees that she is more than a little off centre, has somehow again lost control over her thoughts and emotions. She had come back stateside so ready to care for her daughter, be responsible for once. But now she can’t do anything until she resolves this situation, finds a way to save Quinn from himself. 

“Yes?” she snaps into her phone, figures it’s just another former ally phoning to tell her that there’s no favours coming, to stop calling. 

At first Carrie thinks there’s no one there, that it’s a hang up. She hears a click, expects it to be followed by a dial tone. But instead, a robotic voice comes on the line, some sort of automated system. 

“An emergency GPS transponder attached to this phone number has been activated at oh three hundred hours GMT. Coordinates of the signal are 36.782258, 26.443689. This message will be repeated until this call is disconnected.” 

“An emergency GPS...” 

Carrie listens to the message three times, writes down the coordinates given, locates them on a map. The pin drops somewhere in the foothills of the Southeast Anatolia region in Turkey and suddenly she forgets to breathe. 

Every cell in her body wants it to be true. She has asked for a miracle, tried to make it happen in every way possible. Only to come so close and still fail. 

But who could have sent the message? Because she knows there’s no way Quinn would have had access to the technology, not with Adal giving out orders. And she has little to no faith in his team lead, Rob, regardless of the promise he made to her on the phone at the Syrian border. She’s done her digging and knows he is the definition of a lifer, a total company man. Not exactly the kind of guy willing to take on Adal to let a teammate defect. 

Carrie considers for a moment that it could be a ploy, a set up to pull her out to Turkey, get rid of her in a way that no one will question. With Adal, anything was possible. And the worst part is that it doesn’t matter that she’s probably being baited, she knows she will go anyway, fall right into his trap if that’s what it is. 

Carrie bites down hard on her lip, understands that this is one of the defining moments of her life. If she goes, it’s all over. Everything she’s worked for, everything she’s ever believed in. 

But the thing is that she doesn’t know what she believes in anymore, is only just coming to terms with the knowledge that she’s been wearing blinders for so long. She had been so full of faith, so sure that she was doing the right thing, protecting her country from terrorists. 

Yet never considering what happens when war escalates unchecked, when CIA actions drive more and more young Muslims towards extremism. 

She thinks about Aayan, brought up a Haqqani. His entire family killed in front of him, every one of them sacrificed to facilitate even more death. What chance did the boy ever have in this world that they’ve made? 

It makes her think of Frannie, what she wants for her daughter. Brought into the world by a terrorist, yet another one made from American actions, drone attacks. The worst part is it never dawned on her all that time in Kabul - that she was there creating more Brodys, more hate. 

But now she sees it, gets that more death will never solve the problem. She owes that to Quinn, much more too. 

Without the CIA to believe in, Carrie’s lost her anchor, needs to find something to hold onto. And everyone keeps on telling her to turn to family, to focus on Frannie. But as much as she tries, she just can’t let him go, allow him to scurry off into the dark. He might not think she owes him anything but Carrie knows what it took for him to stick with her through some of the hardest times in her life. 

So in the end her decision is obvious. No matter the cost, she will see this through. 

Carrie takes a deep breath, looks around her office. Apart from a few personal belongings, everything is classified. 

Fuck it, she thinks. She has the coordinates and that’s all she needs. 

And with that Carrie picks up her bag, walks out of her office for the last time. 

* 

She barges into Saul’s office without thinking, doesn’t even bother to wonder why he’s still there so late, that he must have something big going on. With their history Carrie thinks she’s earned the right to his time, whenever she needs it. Yet she knows things aren’t like they used to be, that they will probably never be the same ever again. 

Saul is reading a brief at his desk before he looks up, seemingly unsurprised to find her charging into his office. Probably because no one else would dare to burst into his office that way - especially now that he’d been brought back in as the Interim Director after the all the bullshit Senate hearings on what happened in Islamabad. 

Saul looks both weary yet hard, sighs irritably as he puts the brief down, makes eye contact with her. 

And Carrie has no idea what she’s going to say, just knows that it’s all going to turn out poorly. She feels the rise in her gut, the increased action in her head and doesn’t even try to reign it in. If this is the end between her and Saul, she’s going to give it everything she’s got. 

“Whatever it is, Carrie,” Saul starts ominously. “The answer is no.” 

She glares at him, this man she thought she knew. And so many emotions hit her at once that she’s almost floored, taken down by the strength of it. Betrayal, disgust, love, fear. She remembers being on the tarmac with him, wondering if they were going to die together. 

Carrie’s surprised to find that she still cares, that she doesn’t regret saving him. That there’s still a place in her heart for the man who taught her the trade, along with all the good and the bad that entailed. Even after everything he’s done - used her, abandoned her, cut her off. 

And of course it was Quinn who made her face it, realize it. How fitting that Quinn’s life is now in Saul’s hands, that he has the means to help her save him. 

“I know where he is,” she says, ignoring his statement. “All I need is a security team.” 

Saul raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised at her info. But his eyes are cold, his expression hard. 

“How many times do I have to say this?” he asks irritably. “It’s over. Give up. You can’t save him, Carrie. Not this time.” 

And the thing is, on some level, she knows Saul is right, that there was never much hope that this mission she had made for herself would succeed. Especially not with Adal’s opposition and without any support from her own superior. 

But Carrie’s far past the point where her rational mind has any control over what’s about to happen. All the fear, anger, guilt, that’s built up since Quinn took off has had enough of being tamped down, is ready to take the reigns. 

“Well of course not. Not with your loyal black dog Adal giving the orders,” she spits. “What did you promise him for putting you in this office? A blank cheque to kill whoever he wants? Will you even tell me when I’m next on the list?” 

She didn’t think it was possible but Saul’s expression darkens further with each of her accusations until he is glaring at her with an enmity she barely recognizes. And she never thought of Saul as a man full of hate, not until that moment. But right then she recognizes that she’s lost him too, that there’s nothing left of that connection between them. 

“Watch yourself, Carrie,” he growls at her. “Think very carefully about what you do next.” 

At least he still knows her well enough to see that something is about to blow, that she’s about to step off the edge. But he doesn’t have any authority anymore, can no longer influence any of her actions. 

So if she’s going down, she’s taking him with her. 

“I’ve already thought long and hard about this, Saul,” she fires right back. “I’ve spent a lot of fucking years trying to do what was right. And it almost cost me everything. But you don’t give a shit about any of that, you never did. I was just another means to an end, a tool for you to use and then throw away.”

Saul doesn’t respond and she’s glad he doesn’t deny it - it makes it easier to hate him, want to hurt him. 

“So you and Dar Adal can do whatever you want to fuck me over. I’m done here,” Carrie continues, her voice low and shaky. “But Quinn is not going to die because of some petty personal vendetta, I will not let that happen.” 

“You’re not hearing me, Carrie,” Saul finally says with fake calmness. “There’s nothing you can do about it, the decision’s been made.” 

“And you’re not hearing me,” she fires back. “If you aren’t going to back me on this then this is it, Saul, I’m done. And I’m taking you down with me.” 

At least he hadn’t been expecting that - she can tell from the way his body language tenses up. And she knows he’s thinking back to their last conversation, the threats she made then. 

Truth be told, Carrie never thought she would ever have the guts to go through with it, expose the truth of Saul’s capture and release. It took until this moment for her anger to reach the limit, push her to the point where she wants to embarrass him like that, bare his frailties to the world.

If she leaves, she will make sure he doesn’t get the directorship. It will be her last act, a final fuck you to what once was between them. 

Saul stares at her and she can see the disappointment, the disgust grow in his eyes. And for once it doesn’t matter at all what he sees in her - she no longer needs his approval, is ready to cut the cord. 

“You’ll be dead before you even find him,” he says grimly. “All this for what? You can’t save him, Carrie. He’s beyond saving.” 

“So now it’s come down to threats?” she asks, mock-incredulously. “What a fucking surprise, Saul. I should have known. Well I hope you enjoy my parting gift. I hope it’s for your fucking retirement.” 

And with that Carrie storms out, slams the door for good measure. Strides down the hallway, fingering the flash drive in her hand. Wonders how far things will go - if Saul will send someone after her, if Adal will try to kill her too. 

* 

Five hours later she’s at the airport, boarding a plane. It’s a relief just to sit down, take a breath. The past few hours have been a whirlwind of international phone calls, arguments with Maggie. Her sister doesn’t understand the need to jet off to Turkey, and it probably didn’t help that Carrie revealed her new unemployed status just before announcing she was leaving the country. 

She fully understands it sounds crazy. Running off to the Turkish Syrian border with just a single set of coordinates, no idea where he’s heading. But Carrie knows she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she doesn’t try. And she was done with all the bullshit, all the lies. She never thought it would happen - but she really thinks she’s done with the Agency, has nothing left to give. Especially now that she’s severed the relationship with Saul, released the damning hostage video of him anonymously onto the internet. She knows it will at least lead to him losing out on the directorship, hopes it’s enough to force him into leaving the Agency again. 

So she’s going to make it a clean break, cut the cord and never look back. Even if this hail mary mission to find Quinn doesn’t pan out - if she’s lost him forever then at least she’ll know she tried, that she didn’t abandon him in the end. 

Carrie sinks into her seat, knows she should try to sleep, that she will be getting into Turkey at midnight and she will need to be sharp upon arrival. But there’s little to no hope of even closing her eyes - her mind is full of questions, ideas of where to look for him. 

She wonders if the security team she hurriedly hired via a mutual contact will even show up, if the money she’s brought will be enough, if she’ll even make it into Turkey with it. And then she wonders how badly Quinn is injured, if he has any chance at all or if he’s already dead. 

For a moment Carrie pictures finding his body, then tries to stop her mind from going in that direction but can’t control her rampant anxieties. In so many ways she doesn’t even know why she is doing this, is just propelled by an unexplainable need to save him. Even if he doesn’t want to be rescued, even if she never finds out what happened to him. At least she will have satisfied this urge, this need to look for him. 

No wonder Maggie thinks she’s having another episode, that she’s gone off her meds. It was all she could do to stop her sister from committing her to the mental ward again - she even half-expected to be met by cops when she arrived at the airport. 

But evidently even Maggie has given up on her, is letting her find her own way. And, regardless of not knowing what’s in her future, for the first time in a long time Carrie feels free. She’s finally taken the first step away from the job that’s cost her so much, sucked away her soul. And now she’s trying to do some good, save someone she loves from a fate he doesn’t deserve. 

So it doesn’t matter that she’s quit her job, left her family, is spending thousands by the hour. Another time this would be a clear sign of her illness showing up. But for once Carrie is sure that this is just her, that she’s finally figured out what she stands for. 

*

It’s past midnight Turkish time when she lands at Gaziantep, sixty miles north of Aleppo, just over a hundred miles from Adana. 

It’s the closest airport to the location sent to her and Carrie is off the plane first, stands as soon as they start to taxi, much to the consternation of the flight attendants who futilely tell her to sit down. 

She rushes through passport control, tells herself to act calm as she walks through with tens of thousands of dollars of undeclared cash on her. Good thing she’s always kept a large emergency supply in a safe at home ever since she almost ran away the first time. It’s like she knew it would come to this in the end - alone and without backup, just her against the world. 

At least she has the ability to hire some help, she thinks wryly as she steps out into the Turkish night, looks around and spots her crew immediately. An armoured humvee full of private security operators sits in front of the doors, clearly armed and in position for a quick escape. 

Carrie approaches the vehicle and all three men get out, stand at attention, fully geared up. She looks them up and down, is halfway satisfied with what she sees. They appear to be average security contractors, ex-special forces of one kind or another with generic male names to match. But she knows these teams are often just doing their time, just trying to survive until they’ve cleared enough to return home, be with their families. 

So she eyes them carefully as she shakes hands with the crew, tries to determine if she will be safe with them, if they are committed to their mission. But none of the men give her much to go on, just military grunts, an air of tiredness. Still, this is the only team she could hire in such a hurry so Carrie doesn’t exactly have much choice in the matter, jumps in the humvee, hands over the coordinates and briefs her team on their mission.

The leader of the crew, a stocky square-jawed American in his thirties named Keith almost chokes when she tells them their tracking a CIA special ops guy who’s headed in a largely unknown direction with nearly a day’s head start. Even when she tells them he’s injured that she thinks she knows where he’ll be heading, the men look at her like she’s just some rich bitch, someone who doesn’t know her shit. 

Carrie knows she needs to take charge, make them understand that she has the authority here, that she’s the one paying them. But it’s been nearly two days since she’s actually slept and she has too much on her mind to give a shit about what they think. If they do their job, get her to him then they can think what they want. 

The thoughts fly through her mind so quickly she barely notices the drive, is surprised when the driver, Rick, stops in front a dusty two room dwelling in the outskirts of a nameless town. 

She gets out of the humvee, both anxious to enter the house and nervous of what she will find there. It’s not until this moment that she really realizes the message sent to her phone could have meant anything, could have been sent by anyone. And only now does she fully understand that this could likely be a recovery mission, that Quinn might be dead in there. 

Carrie hesitates for just a moment, takes a breath and bites down on her lip, readies herself for whatever she’s about to see. She tells one of the guys to force open the door, readies herself in case the place isn’t empty. But no one shoots as they push their way in, not even as she shines her flashlight inside, makes sure no one is inside.

The safe house is deserted, dusty and still. She searches for any clues, any sign of the previous inhabitants. But she only finds a few MRE wrappers, some discarded bandages, a makeshift hospital bed. 

Carrie stands there, telling herself to breathe, not to panic. Nothing she’s seen changes anything she knows. But it’s somehow different to be confronted with the truth, to see the bed he lay in, his blood on the sheets. 

When she realizes there’s nothing to find there, no clues, she sits down on the bed, tries to absorb anything he left of himself. But it’s no use - all she feels is a dullness in her heart, a slight ebbing of hope. 

Quinn could be anywhere by now - even injured and on foot she knows he could be able to cover over thirty miles in a day. Not far for their humvee to travel, but she has no real way to know where he’s going. 

She thinks he will head towards Incrirlik, try to make contact with special forces there. Even though it’s risky and somewhat obvious, he has few other choices and most would not be reachable in his condition. 

Carrie pictures him on the move, bleeding his way across the mountains. She wonders if he’s even trying at all, if he’s given up yet. Because she knows he was close, could hear it in his voice when he called. And even that was days ago now, definitely long enough for his resolve to wain. 

She tries to convince herself that he’s resilient, that he wouldn’t just give up. But as she takes one last look at the empty sickbed Carrie can sense that he is hurting badly at the moment, that he doesn’t have much time left. And so she turns and leaves the safe house, looks out for a moment into the silent Turkish night. Sends a mental message out towards the foothills, tells him to hold on, that she’s coming for him. 

*

By the time the first streaks of dawn start to appear they’ve covered many miles of rough 4x4 terrain, started to make their way into the foothills of the mountains. There’s been no sign of Quinn or anyone else for that matter. But then again since they were driving through the night it was hard to see anything at all. 

Carrie is completely exhausted as the light hits her pupils and she has to blink hard a few times, her body starting to fail her as she hits her physical limit. When morning finally arrives, the driver stops the humvee so they can get out of the cramped vehicle, take a look around. 

Carrie steps out of the humvee, tries to stretch out her tight muscles as she walks around, scouting out the terrain. With a critical eye she maps out the possibilities for a man on the run, looks for places he might be hiding out even though she knows it’s highly unlikely he’s anywhere around. Even if she is correct and he’s heading towards the air base, he could be taking almost any route, is likely miles and miles away. 

But still Carrie can’t help but scan the area, check out every likely covered spot. Wonder if Quinn is out there, hiding out, somewhere within reach. She even sees a perfect place, about a couple hundred yards off. A rocky ledge, up against good tree cover, with an unobstructed lookout at the complete valley below. 

And she knows she’s tired, that she’s not thinking clearly. But the more she looks at the little escarpment, the more she thinks that he might actually be up there. The distance from the safe house is about right, and the hidden ledge is the perfect place to safely get some sleep. 

Carrie starts walking towards the mountain, swears she sees a glint of light reflect oddly as she approaches. But she’s still over a hundred yards away when she hears the driver holler out that they’re leaving. She considers telling the team to wait, that she needs to go out to the ledge she’s looking at. 

But Carrie’s still with it enough to know how it will sound, that she doesn’t need her new team to be up against her right from the start. There’s nothing to indicate that Quinn would actually be out there, just her mind cobbling hope from anything at all. And she doesn’t need to show her desperation quite yet, has to maintain some semblance of sanity in front of these men she’s just met. 

So she resists the urge to yell at the driver, bites down on her annoyance and tries to settle her mind before getting back in the humvee. Tells herself that at least she’s here, trying to do something instead of sitting in her office, feeling crazier by the minute. 

But as Carrie gets in the vehicle, readies herself for another day of tedious progress, she turns and looks at the mountainside again. He’s out there somewhere, she thinks to herself. Injured and alone. Possibly being hunted by his own team, or some other kill squad sent out by Adal. 

She thinks of the last time she saw him, the parting look he gave her that night. And yet again all her regrets flow to the surface, remind her of everything she’s fucked up along the way. 

In so many ways she knows she doesn’t deserve a happy ending, that this is not how things turn out in her life. But as she looks out the window of the humvee, Carrie silently asks the local gods to look out for Quinn, tells them he doesn’t deserve to die out here. 

* 

The day passes in a rocky, bumpy blur. They make their way through the mountains on rough four by four tracks, at times traveling slower than they would have on foot. But Carrie is thankful for the ride, even manages to nod off for a few minutes along the way. 

By the time they stop for the night, the entire team is irritable and she knows they all think they’re on a pointless mission, that they’re driving around the mountains chasing a ghost. But Carrie doesn’t really give a shit what her security team thinks - she’s paying them to escort her, protect her if necessary. If they don’t like the op then they just have to suck it up, do the job. 

They’ve taken over an abandoned hut for the night, little more than mud and stone but enough to keep them covered, out of sight. Not that they weren’t already too obvious with the military-equipped humvee. But they were still trying to lie as low as possible, keep out of sight in case another team is also out looking for Quinn. 

Carrie lies down on the ground, remembers what it’s like to be in the field. The long days, the unpredictability of it all, danger around every corner. And even though she’s exhausted, she still tosses and turns, can’t shake him from her mind. It’s almost worse to be so close, to think that he’s somewhere nearby, alone and suffering. 

She tells herself that Quinn is a survivor, that he’s made it this far on his own. Somehow she knows it’s true even though he’s never told her much of his story - they are each loners in their own way, unable to connect with the rest of humanity. It’s what keeps them apart, no matter how close they get. 

But as she finally drifts into a light sleep, Carrie swears she feels him nearby, tries to tell him that he doesn’t have to be completely alone anymore. 

*

Carrie wakes with a start, unsure what knocked her out of a surprisingly deep sleep. The last streams of a dusty dream slip off and she tries unsuccessfully to remember something she saw as she slept. She only has the vague sense that she’s lost a key piece of information, then reminds herself she’s half asleep, doesn’t have full access to rational thought yet. 

She sits up, listens for what could have awakened her. She hears nothing at first, just a light wind. But then there are approaching footsteps and she braces herself for an intruder, some sort of attack. 

Carrie grabs a hold of the weapon she has stashed beside her, readies it even as she pretends to sleep. She hears the door creak open, grips the gun nervously under her blanket. Is about to leap up, get the jump on the intruder when she realizes it’s just one of the guy coming back from his watch shift. 

Her heartbeat starts to slow and she puts the gun down, feeling a bit stupid for overreacting. She must have heard the sentry’s footsteps and that was what woke her up, made her think they were about to be attacked. Good thing she hadn’t reacted any quicker, did not need to be pointing her gun at her own team. 

Rick closes the door loudly, calls out loudly for the team to get up. 

“Sun’s up, sweep’s done,” he announces. “Get your asses up, it’s time to move out.” 

Carrie gets up right away, still jittery from the vague specter of her dream, the feeling that something is amiss. The other guys also start to move, begin gearing up for the day, pull out some MREs for breakfast. 

Carrie knows she should eat but feels queasy, knows that anything she ingests won’t stay down for long. So instead she walks outside, thinking that the fresh air will make her feel better, settle her stomach. 

The morning has a crisp smell to it and Carrie breathes it in, tries to cast aside the lingering tendrils of her dream. A few flashes come back as the dawn breaks over her - seemingly familiar footsteps, a faint odor of almonds. 

Particles of her dream, she realizes, as vague images flood into her mind. A sense of being watched, the closeness of imminent danger. Something familiar yet deadly, intimate in a way. 

She catches the memory of it by the tail, tries desperately to understand what her dream had been trying to tell her. And just for a fleeting second she remembers feeling him in the air, knowing they were only separated by the barest of molecules. 

Suddenly Carrie finds her heart in her throat, feels the tingle in her spinal cord that tells her something is amiss. It may have just been a dream but the feeling is so acute, won’t let her go. So she circles the hut, not sure what she’s searching for until she notices the faint imprint of a hand on the dusty stones of the hut. 

It’s not much, nothing she would normally notice. But the buzz in her spine tells her to keep on looking, that it’s not just her overactive imagination playing tricks on her. 

So Carrie puts her hands in the same spots, boosts herself up and finds herself looking at something on the mud roof of the hut. 

It only takes her a split second to recognize what she’s looking at - years of active duty in Iraq and Afghanistan automatically kicking into gear. And before she even realizes it, Carrie’s off the roof, opening the door, screaming at her team to run. 

The guys are frozen in confusion for a moment and all she can think is that there’s not enough time to explain, that they need to just fucking listen to her. Then finally they are all moving and she’s running along with them, trying to explain herself as they hustle towards the humvee when the world suddenly becomes only force and fire, picks her up and hurls her into darkness.


	11. q.vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one week til homeland gift of fic... only one c part left after this!

Quinn’s about a mile away when he hears the explosion, smiles grimly to himself. Wonders if he’ll hear the next bomb go when the humvee starts up or if the whole team got taken out by the one on the hut. 

His heart rate is finally dropping for the first time since he spotted the humvee that morning. He had been sure they had eyes on him, thought he could make out one of them looking in his direction for much too long. In hindsight his ledge was too perfect, too obviously the best spot in the area to hide out. And he would have been trapped up there, unable to move out if the team had come around to explore. 

So he had hidden deep in the rocky alcove, tried to ascertain the quality of his opponents, who Adal had sent to retrieve his deserter. But even with binoculars Quinn couldn’t quite make out the group, was just a bit too far. At least that also meant he couldn’t see anything to identify them as his own. 

And then the group had traveled on, giving him the advantage of surprise. He followed them discretely the rest of the day, both buoyed and anxious because they were constantly headed exactly where he meant to go. 

It meant they knew where he was going. But then again they obviously thought they were still doing the chasing, had no idea that he was coming up behind them, tracking his trackers. And as such, they had no reason to expect anything, would not be looking out for an attack. At most he would just have to evade a sentry or two - which he could manage handily, even in his pathetic state. 

Quinn shakes himself back into the present, doesn’t even look back at the explosion - gives no thoughts to who he’s just killed. Adal’s guys, some way or another. No one else would have any idea where to look for him. At least he thinks it’s not his own team, knows that his guys would have at least secured the ledge that morning, looked for tracks. 

Whoever it is, they don’t seem to be top of the line contractors. Maybe Adal had to hire in a hurry, Quinn thinks wryly. Has a moment where he hopes he’s killed the old man’s team all in one shot. Remembers that this is what it’s like to be in the game, one op to the next. No thinking, just killing. 

He remembers this old familiar self, all he was for most of the last decade. It’s a skin he’s worn so many times, yet one he’s almost forgotten about. Two years with Carrie obliterated all of that, the power of the kill, the layer of coldness. 

It had been a long time since he had felt the heat within, let well-buried emotions bubble to the surface. And ever since then he had been a fucking liability, thinking too much, falling prey to his feelings. 

Thus the trip to Syria, leaping into the same trap he always ends up in. Quinn knows he asked for this, that by going back to the team he was falling back on the killer within.

Targeting with no regret - it’s something he hasn’t felt in a long time. So easy, so clean. No wonder Carrie had fallen prey to it in Kabul, he suddenly thinks to himself. Almost a natural reaction to losing everything that you care about. Why had he even tried to stop her in the first place? 

The black of his mind is deep now, as Quinn waits for the second bomb to blow. It shouldn’t be long between the two and he feels that little thrill in his sternum that he used to get with each kill. The realization of death, of another mission accomplished.

But this time Quinn doesn’t hear the second bomb go off, the one set to trigger when the humvee started up. Which should mean he killed or disabled them all with the first bomb. Unlikely but possible. Or a survivor was with it enough to think to look deep in the guts of the humvee before starting it. Also unlikely but possible. Either way, he figures he’s at least injured or killed some of his pursuers, but has lost the advantage of surprise.

So now it’s the time to move, make miles. Quinn stops for a moment to catch his breath, prepare for a day of pain. With the morning mission accomplished he is less concerned about having a clear head and with each step away from the adrenaline of action he feels the incessant burn, the constant drip of need. 

Quinn pulls out his bag, counts up his supplies. He’s been trying to skimp on the doses, toughen himself up to the pain. But even so there are only ten shots left - about fifty hours of satiation. Which isn’t quite enough to get him to the airbase, especially not after backtracking some of the previous day in his effort to terminate Adal’s team. 

Still, he’s no longer in a position to ration the supply, has to get as far away as possible in case any of his pursuers survived the attack. And to move quickly he has to relieve the burn, give into the desire. 

So Quinn takes a deep breath, tries to tamp down his heart rate. He hates being dependent on anything, reminds himself that his need for the drug will be over soon, one way or another. Either he will run out and go cold turkey or he will die before that happens. Neither option is ideal but Quinn almost relishes the idea of emptying his supply, forcing himself to survive without it. If he hadn’t made the stupid promise to Carrie, if he didn’t have a long distance to travel. He’d either take it all or dump it right there. 

Yet the words had been spoken, a commitment made. And in a few days it will all be over, his fate sealed. But until then he has made this his choice, will try until the end. 

Quinn sighs, clenches his jaw. Takes two of the syringes and waits until his hand steadies, injects both in succession. 

It’s more than the usual dose, enough to push all thoughts of pain into another dimension. Thirty minutes later he’s completely jacked, pushing his body to its limit. Now it’s time to move, while the enemy is distracted and he’s feeling numb to the pain. He doesn’t think about who he just killed, the fact that he might still love this thing he purports to hate. His mind is a void, a cloud. 

He puts one foot in front of the other, doesn’t even know why. A vague sense of guilt, but also a tint of pride. Mainly because he won’t give up, has that at least.

They will have to put a bullet through his brain, he muses to himself calmly. Even thinks it will be a nice clean death when it comes. 

But until then he will let himself have the moments of drug-induced euphoria, won’t fight the fantasy of actually making it to Germany, seeing her again. It’s not something he’s allowed himself to think about, mainly because the likelihood of him making it out on his own was basically non-existent. Not in his state. 

With this amount of morphine in his system though, he can’t control what comes to mind, can almost feel her there, running with him, pushing him on. And of course she’s kind of yelling at him, almost pissing him off. Which makes it so realistic Quinn looks around a few times, tries to find her in the air around him. 

But there’s never anything around except for more trees and rocks, more ground to cover before the next humvee shows up and tries to kill him. So Quinn does his best to shake off the ghost of Carrie, pushes himself further into the numbing haze. 

*

Quinn awakes with a start, groans immediately at the soreness throughout his muscles. The drug-fueled push after blowing up Adal’s guys the previous day had almost been more than his body could handle. He had ended up stumbling around as he tried to climb a low rocky shelf, almost taking a long fall as he slipped on the last foothold. 

Thankfully his reflexes had reacted before his opiate-affected mind did, grabbed hold of the ledge until he was steady enough to climb the final step. Pushing himself up to his perch, Quinn had collapsed right away into a state of exhaustion, drifted off into a hazy stupor. 

But now it was near dawn and the morphine had long worn off. Quinn notices a shakiness in his hand, feels generally unwell. There is an ache throughout his body he can’t quite identify, the feeling of overwhelming need. 

Through the waves of discomfort he realizes exactly his problem, counts back how long since he first got injured, since his first dose. More than two weeks, and he’s really amped things up the last couple days. 

And even though he had known it was coming, it’s still always a shock to find himself so physically dependent on a drug, relying on something in that way. Just completely unlike him to give up control so readily. 

At least this isn’t as bad as his last bender, Quinn thinks to himself darkly. That had come out of nowhere as well. Not that he didn’t sometimes give into the mindlessness of booze - just never so sharply, with so much feeling. 

But that had been for a reason. Same fucking reason as everything that sets his life in flames, he thinks bitterly. Not that he really blames her for anything, knows it’s really all on him in the end. Still, it’s hard to forget how easy life was before Carrie came along, that she really makes things complicated in every way. 

Just like she sabotaged his chance to take the easy way out, go with a quick bullet from an insurgent’s kalashnikov somewhere in deep Syria. Leaving without a trace, a single letter, at most one friend in the world. 

A nice thought, Quinn muses as he shakes off the veil of sleep, pushes through the pain and sits up. 

It’s not until then that he suddenly realizes he had startled awake for a reason, had awoken with the sense that something was amiss. Annoyed with himself for taking that long to react, Quinn shakes his head but still doesn’t quite get rid of the cloudy edges of morphine. 

It’s a devil’s bargain, just like the rest of his life, Quinn thinks to himself grimly. Keep taking the drug to survive, move on. But it lessens his ability, makes him an easier target. 

Quickly he does a silent perimeter check of his area, is relieved to find it dark and quiet, no sign of imminent danger. But even just moving around a few steps without the drugs is still far beyond his high threshold for pain, burns through every muscle fibre as he drags himself along. 

By the time he makes it back to his hidden ledge Quinn is sweating despite the coolness of the morning, knows that he only has little left. A day or two, he thinks as he pulls out the last few syringes - barely a days worth at the rate he’s been needing it. 

But there’s not much point in saving it, not when he’s living moment to moment now, waiting for another death squad to show up soon. So Quinn takes two needles, shoots them into his leg in quick succession.

And just as he presses the second plunger he hears a noise, knows it’s the same thing that woke him up originally. An engine at a distance, a humvee by the sounds of it. In a region with no roads, no towns. 

Quinn takes a breath, thinks he can feel the morphine traveling through his veins as he pushes himself to his feet, grabs his binoculars out of his bag. 

It’s almost dawn now and he can just make out the dust of the humvee as it pulls to a stop across the valley from him, about a mile away near a larger outcropping of rocks. And though all humvees pretty much look the same, he’s fairly sure this one should have been blown to a million pieces the previous morning. Wonders if Adal somehow predicted what would happen, or if it was his team coming for him after all. Whoever it was knew his tactics too well if any of them had survived the two bombs. 

Quinn watches through the binoculars, can vaguely make out a few operators checking out the more obvious spot to hole up for a night. Breathes a sigh of relief that he remembered his lessons even in his opiate cloud and chose a ‘worse’ location, one with an obstructed view and less cover. 

But it was fucking not good that this team was so close, had found his tracks so easily. He keeps telling himself it’s not his own guys, that they wouldn’t do it even if ordered to. But the morphine is starting to really kick in strong and he’s losing some lucidity of thought as he watches them operate, considers his options. 

It’s hard to see from his vantage point but he can tell that there’s four of them, that they’re clearing their target area efficiently. And even though he’s mostly sure they aren’t his guys, he still sees his teammates’ faces in his mind; pictures standing face to face with them and having to pull the trigger. 

Quinn grinds his teeth, shuts his eyes tightly and tries to shake the image from his mind. Tells himself to fucking breathe, focus on what needed to be done. 

Best case scenario, the team below checks out the obvious spot then goes on its way so he’s behind them again. And regardless of what they do, it’s pretty clear that he can’t go anywhere until they’ve left the area. 

So Quinn hunkers down, ensures that his weapons are at the ready. He’s irritated he doesn’t have a sniper rifle, could easily take out the targets at this range even from his mostly obstructed viewpoint. But the M4 carbine can only take out point targets at a distance of five hundred metres, about a third of a mile. And if they got that close, he wouldn’t have much of a chance at all. 

But he could still defend himself, take out a couple of them before the end, Quinn thinks grimly as he watches them finish their sweep, get back in the humvee. 

The more he watches the more he’s sure it’s not his guys, that their patterns of movement are different. These operators are just contractors, only one of them moving with any urgency, he thinks. The small slim one covers more ground than the rest of them combined, marches around with an almost manic energy. Quinn decides that guy must be Adal’s man, that the rest of the team was hired on the quick. Better than having to kill his own guys, he thinks. Easier too if they’re just regular security contractors. 

Then again, the fact that they survived his earlier attack indicates that they are more proficient than they appear, that they could be more than they seem. 

Quinn watches as the vehicle starts up, begins to move in the direction of the airbase. And for a moment he thinks they’re going to leave the area, sees them drive a few hundred metres away from his location, enough to give him some breathing room. 

He stands up, gathers his meager supplies and readies himself for movement. His plan is to follow behind the humvee again, possibly set up another explosive even though they will be somewhat expecting it now. But just as he’s about to step away from his cover, he hears the vehicle start to come closer, can see it nearing even without his binoculars. 

Fuck, Quinn thinks to himself as he ducks back behind some foliage. The fucking humvee is headed straight towards his awkward hiding spot, as if they somehow sensed him there. 

The humvee stops about a half mile from his location, can’t go any further due to the rise in the terrain. Four operators get out of the vehicle and follow as the slender one leads them towards his lookout, starts walking up into the rocks. 

Quinn quickly readies his weapons, judges that the team will be within his target zone within a few minutes. And more than anything, he wishes he hadn’t taken a double dose of morphine just before shit hit the fan, can feel the drug pushing into him and affecting his movement, his ability to think clearly. 

All he knows is he’s in a shit position, that he has to take out as many as he can as soon as they enter range, even though that will completely blow his location and he’ll essentially be trapped. If he waits for them to get any closer he still won’t get them all, and won’t have any chance at escaping afterwards. 

So Quinn stands behind a bushy tree, finds a decent line of sight and aims his weapon towards his pursuers, watches as they approach. 

Unfortunately they aren’t completely useless, keep enough distance around them so that they won’t all be taken out in one spray attack. Only the leader seems uninterested in basic special ops tactics, forges ahead of the group obviously, almost asking to be taken out first. 

Gladly, he thinks to himself. Especially if it’s Adal’s chosen man, likely his own successor as Adal’s ‘guy’. 

Quinn waits until the leader is within the kill zone, sets his sight. Sees the slight man in his view, dressed in too-large fatigues, basic combat helmet. Takes another deep breath, licks his lips in anticipation, fires a spray of bullets. 

All the operators dive for cover right away, the leader slowest of all. Definitely a company man, Quinn thinks to himself. Though he’s surprised Adal’s new guy isn’t special forces, doesn’t move like an operator at all. 

Eventually his target drops to the ground and for a moment Quinn can’t tell if he got his guy. He fires another round, sprays the area to keep all his pursuers at bay while he decides what to do. He knows he should be running by now, has lost the element of surprise and the team is going to close on him quickly as soon as he stops shooting. But the idea of running for his life, the pain and futility it would entail, deters him from making the move, convinces him he should just stay, make a final stand. 

It could well be the last decision he ever makes, Quinn thinks to himself. And irregardless of promises made, mistakes regretted, Quinn’s a realist, can read the situation clearly even through the haze of morphine. 

So he doesn’t run, refocuses on the group below him that’s now just starting to move again. Worst of all, he sees the leader push to his feet, can tell that he didn’t hit his target. Which really just showed how off he was, to miss from this distance. 

Quinn shoots again, sprays another round of ammo at the leader as the man idiotically exposes himself, almost runs right at the bullets.

And finally it’s this act of absolute inanity that makes him stop shooting, gets him to realize, even through the opiate cloud, that there’s something wrong with the situation. Nothing is adding up - the odd body language of the lead operator, the fact that Adal’s guy doesn’t seem to give a single fuck about operational tactics, seems to have a severe lack of appreciation for his own life. 

Even now the guy is fucking standing up, walking back into plain view. Quinn puts the M4 to his shoulder, knows that he won’t miss at this distance, no matter the amount of drugs in his system. 

His eye is on the sight, total focus in his mind. And still the guy is just fucking standing there, staring right at him in his hidey hole, as if challenging Quinn to shoot him. 

No fucking problem, asshole, Quinn thinks to himself as he licks his lips one final time. He is well aware that once he takes the shot and one of the other operators will take him out. But at least he will get Adal’s guy, make sure the old man doesn’t completely get his way. 

Quinn’s finger starts to pull the trigger just as his target does the strangest fucking thing. Stands tall, slowly takes off his combat helmet. 

The flash of falling blonde is like a kick to the gut, almost makes him drop his weapon. Everything comes together, flies at him through the morphine filter. The differences in movement, the lack of operational skills. 

It’s the final betrayal, he realizes. Wonders how the fuck Adal got Carrie on his side. Guesses that the black bastard sold her some sob story, told her she was saving Quinn’s life by coming to find him, all the time having hired a team that is out to kill him. A perfect play for Adal, Quinn thinks grimly. Gets rid of his problem, uses Carrie to do it so that she’s complicit, will never forgive herself. 

The thing is he can’t believe Carrie fell for it, that she would even consider working for Adal, no matter how desperate she was. But the realm of possibility is no longer something that is well defined for him, especially with all the morphine he’s been taking. As he stares at Carrie just a few hundred metres away he thinks maybe she really is here to kill him, that she’s been playing him this whole time, setting him up to run towards his death. 

It doesn’t make much sense, especially not with everything she’s told him, everything she’s done. But maybe that was all a lie too, really it was too fantastical to believe in the first place. And in his current state it seems completely plausible that it was all a lie, concocted to keep him going, fuck with his head.

Quinn keeps staring, his finger still on the trigger. But Carrie doesn’t move even though she must be able to see him pointing his weapon at her, just stands there, looking right back at him. 

He wonders how many moments like this he is to have with her - deadly games of chicken where both participants lose. At the motel. In the car in Islamabad. In the control room. Outside Haqqani’s hideout. Moments when time slows, life alters. 

Quinn doesn’t drop his weapon, keeps it aimed, at the ready. He is still certain the team is here to execute him, that Carrie is there to draw him in. And every rational neuron is telling him to kill as many as he can, that it’s all an elaborate trap. 

The worst part is thinking about Adal winning, imagining the gloating look on the old man’s face when he finds out his ploy worked, that he managed to use Quinn’s fatal flaw to lure him in. 

Quinn silently curses at his former boss, at Carrie too. He still can’t believe she was stupid enough to ever work for Adal, no matter what he offered. It should be a deadly mistake, he thinks darkly. Could have been already if he wasn’t such a shit shot while high. 

And then there was that - the fact that he missed twice, from a distance where the effects of drugs should not matter. As much as he doesn’t want to think about it, Quinn knows it has to mean something. She should be wounded, dead. But she’s still standing there, staring at him. 

Quinn stares back, tries to sort through the waves of thought pounding against his skull. His weapon is still on his shoulder, ready to fire. But he knows he couldn’t do it, no matter the consequence. Even if it’s what Adal planned, if he’s walking right into a trap. He’s had to shoot her before and it was possibly the hardest moment of his life. 

And just like that the decision is made. Quinn wonders if it’s the opiate that makes him completely content to walk towards his death or if he’s just ready to meet his end. Either way he thinks he will get to talk to her before it happens, and that was all he was hoping for now. 

So he starts to edge down from his perch, keeps his weapon aimed so he doesn’t get taken out right away, before he has a last minute with her. His mind is a mess, emotions and thoughts tangled up in questions, all spread over a clouded drug induced landscape. Which actually is really pretty much par for the course whenever Carrie’s around, Quinn thinks tiredly. 

But he keeps walking, sees that she is also on the move now, making her way towards him. Surprisingly, he sees that the team behind her has dropped their weapons, no longer look to be ready to attack. Still, he figures it’s just a ploy, that they’re helping her draw him in, just before they take him out. 

When they are fifty metres apart he can almost make out the expression on her face. She looks tired, irritated. But he also sees a hint of concern, then tells himself it’s just his head making things up. 

At ten metres she gives him a certain look, a mix of annoyance and impatience, just a hint a confusion. Eyes the weapon still pointed right at her, rolls her eyes as if she knows he will never fire at her. 

“Jesus, Quinn,” she hollers. “Put that thing down before you fucking shoot me again!” 

Until Carrie speaks he hadn’t been quite sure that she was real, that it was really her. But it’s exactly what she would say, her tone dead on. 

So of course he follows directions, drops his weapon even though it leaves him defenseless, open for a kill shot. Stands his ground though, faces her and tries to remember that she’s working for Adal, that he can’t trust her. 

“Fuck you, Carrie! And fuck Adal too,” he yells back, his throat sore from lack of use. “I can’t believe you fucking fell for his bullshit!” 

Carrie keeps walking, doesn’t stop until she’s less than a metre away. Glares at him in that way of hers, searches him up and down with a look that betrays nothing. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” she finally asks. “What does Adal have to do with any of this?” 

Quinn laughs, is actually amused. He hadn’t pictured her denying it, can’t imagine the point of lying to him now that he’s about to die. 

“It’s pretty fucking clear he sent you to find me,” he answers. “How else did you even know where to look?” 

But instead of looking guilty, Carrie just seems cranky, wound up. Looks at him like he’s missing a screw or two. 

“Fucking hell, Quinn. Fuck Adal. You think I’m here for him? I’m done with all that,” she fumes. “I fucking sent myself here.”

Of all things, that was the last thing he expected, leaves him standing there dumbly, his mind a mash. He can’t quite make sense of what she’s saying, just knows it doesn’t fit into his understanding of the situation. 

“What do you mean you sent yourself?” he asks, still sure that it’s a trick, that he’s about to fall into a proverbial tiger pit. 

“I mean exactly that, Quinn,” she snaps. “I got a call about an emergency GPS transponder with a location and a time stamp. So I came to have a look.” 

Quinn wonders if it’s the drugs making everything so incomprehensible, doesn’t see how any of what she’s saying is possible. He knows the Agency would never have sent Carrie to get him, especially not with a useless team of contractors. Adal would never have allowed it, would have used every resource to stop her. And this shit about a emergency transponder made even less sense. Even if JC had sent the signal - and that was already a big if - running off to Turkey on such limited information with no legitimate source made no fucking sense at all. A fool’s errand at best, more likely a suicide mission. 

“You came all the way to Turkey for a look?” he fires back unbelievingly. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense Carrie. It could have been anything, a fucking trap.” 

But now she’s the one that looks totally incredulous, looks at him like he’s gone off the deep end. 

“Jesus fucking christ, Quinn!” she hollers. “I came here for you, what else could it have meant? Who the hell else do I know and actually fucking care about that could be dying in Turkey?”

Her words enter his brain, rattle around for awhile as he tries to make sense of them, fit them around his preconceptions about what the fuck is going on. And he still doesn’t quite want to believe it but Carrie looks completely worn through, even lets an angry tear slip out.  
She may be a practiced actress, a master manipulator. And his mind is weak, diluted with drugs. But all of a sudden Quinn knows he’s not being played, that everything is exactly as she says. Even through the haze of the morphine he can see she’s standing there, laying it all out on the line. 

And with that, he feels everything fall away, the layers of self-hatred, guilt, pain. Suddenly Quinn’s emotionally naked, without any protection and doesn’t know what to do, how to react. So he just stands there blankly, his mind a wash of misunderstanding, conflicting emotion.

He barely registers her approach but then he feels her arms slowly wrap around him, pulling him towards her so tightly it hurts through the morphine. And it’s almost too much, his worn body pressed up against hers. Almost pushes a matching tear out the corner of his eye, his mind still trying to convince him it isn’t real. 

But he knows the feeling of Carrie against him, knows the pattern of her breath. And now her head is leaning into his shoulder, he feels her tears slipping down his neck. Quinn thinks he’s never felt this exposed, this raw, ready to fall. It’s the way Carrie is holding onto him - it tells him he can let go. 

And so he does. Lets go of the distrust, the guilt, the need to be strong. His body sags with the release of it all but she holds on, lets him fall into her. It’s been a long fucking time since he’s been this tired and he still can’t really believe she’s there, holding him up.

It takes him a few seconds to regain his composure, shake his head and let go of her. Stands back a step, has so many questions to ask that nothing comes out. So Quinn just looks at her instead, convinces himself again that this is real. 

A flash of red catches his eye and he automatically reaches out and touches it. It’s blood, a graze on her shoulder. 

“You’re bleeding,” he says. 

“Yeah, some asshole was shooting at me,” Carrie replies, with that typical huff. 

Which almost makes him smirk a bit, before he frowns at the implications of her comment. He really should have killed her from that distance, doesn’t understand how he didn’t. Which is something he doesn’t want to think about at the moment. 

“Shit,” he says. “I could have killed you.” 

Again Carrie huffs, smiles. 

“You wouldn’t kill me, Quinn,” she says. 

“Well I didn’t exactly fucking know it was you,” he growls, a bit irritated now. 

“There’s a lot of fucking could haves, Quinn,” she says. “But they don’t matter. We’re both still here, alive. Out. And you look like shit. Let’s get you to Landstuhl.” 

He has to admit she has a point. He’s fucking exhausted, just starting to accept that fact that this is really happening, that Carrie came out to the middle of nowhere Turkey to find him. 

She offers him her arm and he puts his arm around her shoulders, uses her for support even though he doesn’t really need to. Leans on her as they descend towards the humvee, completely drained. 

It’s all still surreal, possibly due to the lingering morphine haze, mostly because Carrie somehow always pulls off the impossible. But she’s there every time he looks, giving him a concerned eye. And everything about her is so Carrie, her mannerisms, her impatience.

And all the questions come flooding back again - how she’s even there, how she knew where to find him, why the hell she would even look. But there’s no words for what he feels, shoulder against hers, the grime of their lives rubbing together. There’s something between them and he knows it will always be there. What it is may be undefinable, just human magnetism. But there is Carrie in him now, at a cellular level. 

“You are fucking unbelievable, you know that right?” he finally says, a mere mutter against her bleeding shoulder. 

But Carrie just laughs it off, shakes her head slightly. 

“Believe it, Quinn,” she says sternly. “You weren’t allowed to just run away and die, remember?”

He still doesn’t quite understand why this matters so much to her. But he’s in no position to argue, just sinks into the moment, the feeling of being safe, of knowing she’s there. 

“Carrie?” he says, after a moment. “I... uh... I’m...” 

She smiles as she looks at him and he thinks how rare that is. 

He wants to say a lot of things, explain everything at once. Say he’s sorry, that he regrets everything, that he doesn’t deserve any of this. Except he can’t put words to anything, knows he will fuck it all up. 

Quinn knows he must look like an idiot, mouth open, nothing to say. But Carrie just laughs at him a little, gives him an amused shake of her head. 

“It’s okay,” she says, holding onto him hard as they make the last few metres towards her team, the humvee. “We can talk about it all later. Let’s just get you on a plane, make sure you’re alright.” 

He almost tells her he’s not at all alright, then realizes it’s not true anymore. And he’s not at all used to this calm, reasonable Carrie, full of smiles and time for him. But he does fucking love her in his own way, every part of her, at her worst and at her best. Which is something he will probably never tell her, something he hopes she just comes to know. 

So instead of saying anything, he stops walking a few metres from the truck, pulls her around so they’re facing. Studies her in detail, gathers together his emotional energy, so drained from everything that’s happened. 

And just as she’s getting that edge of irritation in her expression, Quinn leans in, glances his lips against hers. He can tell she didn’t expect it, thinks he’s acting off kilter, isn’t himself. But she doesn’t turn away, lets him do what he should have done the second he saw her. 

He keeps the kiss light, brief. A question, not an expectation. 

Carrie pauses before she responds, gentle but with urgency, her breath hot against his cheek. 

“Quinn,” she says seriously, as he lets his lips brush up one more time. 

“Never happened,” he mutters back. “Means nothing. I just had to.” 

Carrie gives him that look that says she’s amused though impatient, brushes her hair behind her ear and scowls at him. 

“No expectations,” he says, leaning close and murmuring against her ear. “You’ve already blown all of mine. You are beyond words, Carrie, and I don’t deserve any of this.” 

But Carrie just gives him a little pat pat on his back, looks at him with that half scowl half smile thing she does. 

“If that’s the cost of getting you back, Quinn, I’ll pay every day.” 

Quinn still doesn’t know where this Carrie came from, has never seen her so open, loose. But she looks content for once, hasn’t even gotten upset at him yet. And right then he realizes he may genuinely love her, that it isn’t just the magnetism or the morphine talking. 

Which means he can’t have her, something he’s already figured out, always known deep inside. But for now he’s content, lets Carrie sit him in the back of the vehicle, fuss over him a little. Falls asleep almost immediately, the warmth of her hand heating the scars on his chest.


	12. c.vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one day til 5.02! happy reading, this one got long.
> 
> as an aside - i wrote this before q's quote about potassium chlorate reminding him of hospital toilets.

Carrie sits in the back of the humvee, absently worrying at Quinn’s hand. She can’t help but keep looking at him, checking him over as he sleeps. Sees blood in a lot of places, angry wounds, only partially healed. 

He looks stressed even while passed out, concern etched in his face. And she wonders if his mind or his body has taken more of a beating out there, had been sure he was delusional as he accused her of working for Adal. 

Carrie smiles sardonically to herself, thinking it’s a change to be the one accusing someone else of being delusional. But she can already tell that Quinn is battered, almost broken. He had really almost killed her, had been that sure she was working against him. 

Yet she had never really felt any fear, just like that time in Islamabad, in front of Haqqani’s. She knew he couldn’t kill her. Hell, he’d obviously been devastated just having to shoot her in the arm. And that was way before all that shit in Islamabad, their day together stateside. 

But Carrie’s a realist, knows a man doesn’t run off to Syria and suffer for months without consequence. And especially not Quinn, so full of moral contradictions, questionable personal values. 

Still, she can’t help but smile as she looks at him, her hand on his to prove to herself he’s there, alive. It’s a little embarrassing, not something she would usually do. But she’s been worried about him for so long, still thinks he’s going to disappear before they get to the airbase, that something’s going to derail her success. 

So Carrie doesn’t let go, not even after she feels him stir as the humvee approaches Incirlik, leaves the mountains for smooth paved road. And, surprisingly, he doesn’t resist, try to shake free. Just looks up at her with hazy eyes, blinks a few times as if surprised. 

“I dreamt I killed you,” he mutters, half awake. “Fuck. I never even asked. How did you know about the bombs?”

Good question, Carrie thinks. She hasn’t really bothered to consider it, has had a lot of other things on her mind. Really she hadn’t even questioned it, had just chalked it up to intuition, her ability to see certain things. 

“I’m not sure. I just knew you were there. I think it was premonition,” she admits. “Or something.”

“Fuck, Carrie,” Quinn sputters. “I almost killed you.” 

Carrie gives him a half smile, a serious look.

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” she says. “You’re not as deadly as you think.” 

Quinn frowns at that, like he’s now offended he didn’t blow her up. And again she’s amused at his contradictions - remembers why she came to like him in the first place, why she had to find him despite everything. Pats his hand condescendingly, knowing it will piss him off. 

“I’m serious,” he mutters. “I heard it go off. There’s no way you could have known.” 

And the thing is, she knows he’s right. The fact she made it out of the hut with all her contractors was nearly impossible. That no one suffered more than a few bruises, minor concussions, even more unlikely. 

But it’s not something she wants to dwell on, certainly not something Quinn should be thinking about. It’s perfect fodder for an eternally guilty man, just more to regret, hold onto. 

Carrie doesn’t know what to tell him, how to help him let it go. She can feel his anxiety building, the tension rising in his body. And she thinks nothing she can say will absolve him of his personal guilt, has tried in the past to no avail. 

But she has to say something, has to at least try. Looks at Quinn and remembers everything he’s ever done for her, every time she’s hurt him along the way. 

And in the end she just tells him the truth, what she’s always known. 

“You’ve never tried to harm me, not even when I was asking for it,” she says. “I know you think you’re a bad guy, Quinn. But I also know you would never forgive yourself if you hurt me. So maybe we really do get what we deserve.” 

Quinn frowns again, seems to consider her explanation for a long time before responding. 

“What do I deserve?” he finally asks, barely above a whisper. 

It reminds her how fragile he can be, that she may be the only one that gets to see this side of him. The humanity of a killer, the soul he pretends he doesn’t have. 

And Carrie doesn’t know what any of them deserve, is just starting to understand that she’s probably fucked up her own karmic situation for life. But she thinks he should get a little peace of mind, have someone who cares. 

Still, those aren’t the kinds of things she says to Quinn. Not even after chasing him halfway around the world. Actions speak louder than words, she thinks. So instead of answering Carrie takes her hand, puts it directly over his heart. Tries to take away his concerns, make him understand she’s there for him, that he should have that at least. 

It takes a long while but eventually Quinn relaxes, lets go of the tension. Falls asleep with Carrie holding his heart, hoping he feels whatever love he deserves. 

*

They’ve been driving for ages when they finally pull up to Incirlik air base, where the soldier manning the gate gives them a dark look, a command in Turkish. 

Carrie sighs, figured this would happen. They have no real authority to be there, just her invalid CIA ID, a determination to make it work. 

So she gets out of the humvee, back straight, ready to battle. Demands to speak to the American commander on base, gets right in the face of the Turkish soldier. 

The young soldier doesn’t stand a chance, backs up in the face of a fiery blonde American. Makes a call on his radio, obviously anxious to be rid of this task. Then looks around, tries not to make eye contact as Carrie stands by the humvee, glaring at him. 

Eventually an American officer arrives, looking harried and annoyed. He walks up to Carrie, back straight, shoulders tense, exuding impatience. 

“I’m Colonel Sampson,” he says crisply. “What seems to be the problem here, miss?” 

Carrie takes a breath, tells herself she will make this happen, that no mere Air Force Colonel will get in her way. Especially not after calling her miss. 

“I have an injured operative that needs to be on the next flight to Ramstein,” she says sharply. 

“And you are?” the colonel asks sternly. 

“Carrie Mathison, CIA,” she replies with a snap, hands over her ID. 

She knows this is will be the turning point, that everything hinges on what happens next. If the colonel has any doubts, makes any calls they are fucked. 

He grabs her ID, looks at it suspiciously. 

“And what the fuck are you doing in Turkey with just one operative and a team of contractors, Miss Mathison?” Sampson asks. 

Carrie swears to herself, thinks that’s a good fucking question. If it was actually CIA business their arrival would have been called in ahead of time, all clearances covered.

But she doesn’t have time for questions, needs to get Quinn on a plane, into the hospital. So she takes a step towards the colonel, gets right in his face. Lets herself get angry, throws it at him as hard as she can. 

“If you had the clearance to know what the fuck I’m doing here, you’d already know, Colonel,” she fires at him, grabbing her ID back out of his hand. “This man is Special Operations and the rest of his team is back in Syria, on another top level mission. ISIS targets. You heard we got al-Anbari? Well he’s the reason why. You, your men, all of us - we owe him. Now are you going to just stand there while he’s dying in there? Or am I going to have to waste time and call the Director, get him on the line to General Gorenc?” 

The colonel looks taken aback, suddenly a bit unsure. And now Carrie knows she has the upper hand, that he’s already on the defensive. 

“Now just hold on a minute ma’am,” he says, obviously stalling. “You can’t just come waltzing onto an American air base without authorization and not have to answer a few questions.” 

“Well let me know what the hell else needs to be answered so I can get him on the next flight out,” Carrie demands, pushing her advantage. 

The colonel gives her a blank look, caught somewhere between protocol and being yelled at by an angry woman. And she knows he’s not going to refuse them entry now, that they’re almost through the gate. 

So when he doesn’t reply right away, Carrie pulls out her sat phone, gives him a significant look.

“The director is going to be pissed,” she mutters, as if to herself. “Gorenc hates being called about bullshit like this.” 

The colonel eyes the phone, a tense look on his face. Finally he exhales irritably, makes the decision she’s forced him into. 

“Put the phone away,” he growls. “Next flight to Ramstein is in less than three hours. You and your operative are on it. But not the rest of your contractors.” 

Carrie keeps up the poker face, sneers as if she’s pissed off it’s taken this long. Does not let any of her relief show, plays it like she was in charge all along. 

“Fine,” she snaps. “They’ll leave once we’re on the plane.” 

The colonel nods his agreement, seemingly anxious to get away from the situation. Directs the soldier to open the gate, orders another to show them to the proper transport hangar. 

Carrie gets back in the humvee, finally allows herself a breath of relief. Looks over at Quinn who seems still seems to be passed out, is somewhat glad he wasn’t awake for the conversation. He doesn’t need any added stress, she thinks. It’s up to her to deal with everything from now on, make sure he’s taken care of. 

The humvee starts moving and she absently reaches her hand out towards him, is startled when Quinn grasps it in his, squeezes tight. 

“Not nice to scare the officers,” he mutters, eyes fluttering open. 

Carrie halfway scowls, smiles a bit too. Wonders how long he was awake for, 

“Shut up, Quinn,” she replies mock-seriously. “You’re injured, remember.” 

“Dying, actually,” he says with a half-smile of his own. 

And he might think it’s funny but Carrie can’t get over his ashen colour, his obvious frailty. Looks him over yet again and can only see the blood, the scars, can only think of how close it was. Even now, hopefully on the way to Ramstein, she’s not sure of his survival, is somehow sure he’s worse off than it appears. 

Unexpected tears suddenly threaten to spill, all her fear and worry of the past month suddenly pushed to the forefront with his stupid joke. If he wasn’t hurt she would hit him for making such an thoughtless comment, talking so casually about something she’s been so worried about. She even hadn’t wanted to say it to the officer but knew it would result in some action, impress some importance to the matter. 

And the thing is she knows she’s being overly sensitive, that this is the kind of shit said between them all the time. So she does her best to hold back her reaction, looks away from him and shakes her head.

“It was a joke, Carrie,” Quinn says quietly after a long while, gives her hand a squeeze. 

“That’s not something to fucking joke about,” she replies sharply, giving him an angry look. 

But Quinn just sighs, closes his eyes. 

“Relax, Carrie,” he says easily. “I’m not going to die on you after everything you just did.” 

Really she just wants him to stop saying the word, has spent way too much time thinking about it in the last while. But it’s also comforting to hear some reassurance, to know that he’s considered what she’s been through. 

“You better fucking not,” she says, a bit more bitterly than she means to. 

Quinn’s eyes stay closed but he smiles at her comment, gives her hand another squeeze. And as she watches him slip off into unconsciousness again Carrie can’t help but smile too, remember how good it can be to have to him around. 

*

Quinn tries to insist he can walk when they finally start to load the Hercules C-130 medevac transfer; even though he’s obviously in pain, can barely get himself out of the humvee. 

Carrie watches him struggle, doesn’t do anything to help. She knows exactly how stubborn he is, remembers back to the first time she saw him injured. The memory of that day always makes her smile a bit, reminds her she didn’t always like him, appreciate his worth. But when she’d gotten the call from Gettysburg, worry for him had punched her right in the gut. Only then did she realize that she had grudgingly come to like him. 

And now she has to fight the instinct to coddle him, knows he is still a soldier, has to do things his own way. Even if it’s the hard way, difficult for her to watch. 

Quinn’s finally fully out of the vehicle but is leaning against it, clearly exhausted by the effort. Carrie walks over, stands next to him as he eyes the Hercules, watches as soldiers on gurneys are loaded on. 

The transport is about a hundred yards away and she’s pretty sure he won’t make it. A day of rough driving after everything he’s been through has left him obviously stiff and sore. And he generally just looks unwell, seems to be sweating a lot. 

But she also knows he’s going to try, that he made it more than halfway to Incirlik like that. Almost blew them up too, could have killed her more than once. So Carrie doesn’t say anything, just makes sure there is a spare cot she can access quickly if he starts to fade. 

Finally the last of the other injured soldiers are being loaded onto the plane and Quinn turns to give her a do or die look. Grits his teeth and pushes off from the humvee, takes a few slow steps to steady himself. 

Carrie walks next to him, just close enough to grab him if he falters but far enough away that she’s still a bit anxious. It’s hard to watch him struggle just to walk, see him move like an old man. It reminds her of his vulnerability, everything he tries to hide. 

But Quinn is special ops, has interminable willpower. Pushes himself to move faster, drags his injured hip as if he’s immune to pain. And now Carrie remembers his determination, his unwillingness to give in. It can be a pain in the ass sometimes, she thinks. But at least it’s kept him alive. 

By the time they near the plane Quinn is drenched in sweat, starting to slow. He pauses for a moment still a few metres from the loading area and Carrie is instantly on the move, catches him just as he starts to waver. 

It takes him a moment to realize what happened, then looks at her irritably. 

“I’m fine,” he grumbles even though he’s obviously pale and spent.

“Yeah, you look fine,” she replies sarcastically, supporting him with her arm and slowly leading him towards an empty gurney. 

Quinn scowls, tries to resist as she pulls him along. 

“I don’t need a fucking bed,” he argues, glaring at her. 

She doesn’t know why he’s making such a big deal about it, thinks there’s still something going on with him that she can’t quite figure out. But then again it’s just as possible that he’s irritable because of the pain and extreme exhaustion, dehydration too.

Either way, he should be lying down, especially for the five hour flight ahead. But first she has to get him to calm down, stop resisting. 

“Actually, you look like shit,” she replies matter-of-factly. “And you’re going to pass out the second the flight takes off. So just lie down, Quinn. You’ve walked far enough.” 

Of course Quinn doesn’t listen, tries to pull away from her grasp and stumbles with the effort. Carrie grabs him again, drags him over to the gurney and leans him up against it. Stands there facing him, both annoyed and worried as she takes in his deathly pallor, the slight shake he’s developed. 

“Jesus, Quinn!” she snaps in his face. “What the hell is going on with you?” 

Quinn glares right back, exudes agitation. 

“I have to stay on my feet,” he mutters. “I’m done if I lie down. I can’t give in.” 

Now Carrie really thinks he’s delirious, doesn’t understand what he’s talking about. But he’s obviously distressed, is getting a slightly wild look in his eyes. And she needs to get him to settle down, get on the fucking plane. 

So she stops and takes a breath, reminds herself that he’s been through a lot. Reaches out and presses her hand against his sweaty brow for a moment before he swipes it away angrily. Notices that his pupils aren’t quite focused, his breaths more laboured than before. 

It’s then that it suddenly comes to her, the realization of what’s going on, why Quinn’s progressively getting less reasonable, more worked up. All the symptoms were there but she’d been too wrapped up in everything else to figure it out. And of course he would never say anything, would just continue suffering in silence. 

But right now she just has to get him on the plane, can address the situation later. Everything else has been loaded and now they’re just waiting on Quinn, the pilot standing there impatiently watching their progress. 

“You’ve done everything you can, Quinn,” she says sternly, giving him a ‘don’t fuck with me’ look. “And I wouldn’t let you give up. But I need you to lie down, okay? I’ll take care of everything. You know I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

Then Carrie takes him by the shoulder, tries to nudge him onto the gurney. For a moment she thinks he’s going to be combative, feels him flinch as she makes contact. But then the fight finally goes out of him and he lays down on the bed, curls up in his bloody fatigues. 

Carrie breathes a sigh of relief as Quinn finally gets pushed onto the plane, then quickly scrambles on behind him, finds a seat for take off. Sits down as the adrenaline in her body starts to fade, makes her realize she’s exhausted. 

The Hercules starts up almost immediately, is in the air for awhile before Carrie realizes it’s done. She fucking found him in the middle of nowhere and now they are on their way to Germany, where Quinn can finally get some of the medical treatment he needs. Impossible. But true. 

Carrie smiles to herself in satisfaction, lets the relief wash over her. Then remembers she still has something left to deal with, needs to have a talk with Quinn. 

The plane has settled into its flight by then so Carrie gets up, walks over to where Quinn’s lying uncomfortably on the gurney. In the dim light she can’t quite tell if he’s asleep, so she sits at the foot of the bed to see if he stirs. 

He doesn’t move right away but she sees his eyes open, can tell he hasn’t been sleeping. Carrie moves closer, tries to see if he looks any worse. 

“How long’s it been since you last had a shot?” she asks quietly.

Quinn grimaces, closes his eyes again. 

“Just before you found me,” he mutters, his breath shaky 

Carrie does a quick count, shakes her head in disbelief. Figures he’s been at least fourteen days on morphine, is now going on fourteen hours without any. What she doesn’t get is why he didn’t say anything, not even after obvious symptoms of withdrawal began. 

“Jesus, Quinn,” she says sharply. “You must feel like shit. I’ll go get you some.” 

Carrie starts to get up but Quinn catches her by the wrist before she can go anywhere. 

“No, I’m done with it,” he says. “It was just to get out.” 

She knows where he’s coming from but also thinks he’s being an idiot, a martyr. Subjecting himself to unnecessary pain as some sort of masochistic self-punishment. 

“Don’t be stupid, Quinn,” she replies. “You’re obviously in pain. And they’re going to put you back on it at the hospital anyway. Then they’ll wean you off of it and you won’t have to go through any of this.” 

But Quinn doesn’t let go, just shakes his head, looks at her seriously. 

“I said I was done,” he states firmly. “At the hospital, tell them I don’t want any. Okay, Carrie?” 

Of course it’s a stupid thing to do, just the sort of decision he would make. But she knows better than to fight him on it, understands that this is something he needs to choose for himself. And he never asks much of her, so she can’t exactly deny him this. 

“Okay,” she finally agrees, with a huff to indicate her displeasure. She wants to argue with him, admonish him for being so stubborn. But for once she bites her tongue, reminds herself it’s his choice. Even if that means she has to watch him go through it all, has to watch him suffer. 

She thinks that’s the end of the discussion, doesn’t think Quinn will have anything else to say now that he’s won. But he still has a hold of her arm, is still giving her a slightly feverish, consternated look. 

“I need to clear my head,” he explains carefully. “I want it to be over.” 

And that Carrie definitely understands - the mental fog of medication, the desire to get back to ‘normal’. At any cost, regardless of consequence. 

So she sighs, then looks at him carefully. Worries about what he has coming, especially in his already weakened state. But obviously his decision has been made and she isn’t going to fight him on this one. Instead she gives him a pointed look, a mock scowl. 

“Fine, Quinn,” she agrees with a grimace. “But if you puke on me, deal’s off.” 

She thinks she sees him quirk a smile in response but can tell he’s fading, slipping under. And then just as she’s sure he’s out, his eyes drift open for just a moment, give her an amused look. 

“You’re not afraid of a little body fluid, are you, Carrie?” he asks. 

It’s not at all what Carrie expects him to say, reminds her that he still often surprises her. And she’s still trying to think of a comeback when she realizes he’s finally fallen asleep, the ghost of a smirk still on his face.

* 

Carrie’s sleeping by his hospital bed, exhausted after what’s been almost a week of endless travel, when Quinn finally stirs, makes a sound of discomfort. It snaps her awake, startles her more than it should before she remembers where she is, that they’re safe. 

He had been in surgery longer than she expected, the doctor coming out with a seemingly endless list of damage they had to repair. An infected bullet hole in his hip, masses of scar tissue from shrapnel in his torso, misaligned ribs, internal bleeds, other infections everywhere. And then there was the malnutrition, dehydration and exhaustion too. Enough to have easily killed another man weeks ago, the doctor remarks, as if it’s meant to make her feel any better. 

But the doctor also said it looked like Quinn could make a full recovery, especially if he was a tough as he appeared. And that did help her relax, make her realize that he would physically be okay. Yet she also wondered about the rest of him, if that would heal too.

Carrie watches as he blinks awake, looks around in slight confusion before settling his eyes on her. And despite all her worry, Carrie smiles completely genuinely at Quinn’s innocent sleepiness, thinks she doesn’t get to see this often. 

“Hey,” she says softly. “How are you feeling?” 

Quinn grimaces, immediately tries to sit up, then lies back down at the effort, looks up at Carrie irritably. Which reminds her that all the local anesthesia is wearing off now, that it’s now been a day and a half since he’s had any other painkillers. 

She had dutifully informed the doctors of Quinn’s opiate refusal so he hasn’t been hooked up to the self-feeder, has nothing but antibiotics and saline going into his system. And it’s not the sort of thing ibuprofen is going to even make a dent in.

And now she wonders if he regrets his decision, knows he is in a lot of pain. But Quinn just stubbornly pushes himself back up until he’s sitting, then holds onto himself tightly, despite the injuries on his torso.

Carrie passes him some water, waits for his breathing rate to settle. And finally he turns to look at her, a tense expression on his face. 

“You look tired,” he says critically, not bothering to answer her question. 

“Well, you look like shit,” Carrie replies, stating the obvious. 

That at least gets him to look himself over, examine his new bandages. And she can tell that just shuffling around in the bed is excruciating for him, each movement slow and awkward. Wonders yet again why he’s putting himself through it, why he won’t just take the drugs for a little while longer. 

“Yeah, that’s about right,” he finally agrees tiredly, barely above a mumble. 

It’s quiet for a moment as they eye each other warily. And the thing is Carrie doesn’t know what to say to him, thinks they do better in life or death situations - that they don’t know how to deal with the quiet times in between. 

“Can I get you anything?” she asks, even though she can’t think of what he would want other than strong painkillers at that moment. Probably not food, especially not coming off morphine. 

Quinn shakes his head, sits back and closes his eyes. 

“You should sleep in a bed,” he says after awhile. 

“And you should just worry about yourself,” Carrie replies, giving him a stern look. 

Surprisingly he doesn’t argue, actually nods in agreement. And that immediately makes her a bit suspicious, gives him another glance. 

But this time she really takes a good look, can see he’s sweating - yet also appears pale, clammy. He’s even doing a pretty good job of suppressing whatever he’s fighting, but she thinks it’s just a matter of time, that something’s about to give. 

And exactly then, Quinn exhales sharply and bolts, tries to unhook all the monitors as he makes for the bathroom. He doesn’t quite detach everything but still somehow manages to almost stumble there before Carrie catches up, opens the door for him just in time for him to vomit mostly in the toilet. And then again, this time with better aim. And again, even though there’s nothing left to expel.

Then he sits down, leans against the bathroom wall. Looks disgusted and irritated at once, scowls at her when she joins him on the floor. 

“Well, at least it wasn’t on me,” she says wryly, with a little shrug.

Quinn looks at her, gives her a grudging smirk. Then looks away again, jittery and tense. 

She knows it’s not nice to be the occupant of his body at the moment, has a really good understanding of how it can be. The constant shakiness, the sweats, aches, cramps, nausea. And that’s not even factoring in his myriad injuries, the obvious pain. 

But of course Quinn doesn’t say anything, just grits his teeth and hugs his knees, shivers as he sweats. And all she can do is bring him a blanket, silently tuck it over his shoulders, watch as he struggles in his own skin. 

He reacts to that with another scowl, obviously hates to be put in a position of weakness. 

“Fuck off, Carrie,” he snaps. “I’ll be alright.” 

But Carrie just raises her eyebrows, bemused that he thinks he will get rid of her. 

“Yeah, you will,” she replies equally snippily. “And I’m going to stay right here and make sure of it.” 

Quinn groans, exhales irritably. And she thinks it’s a good thing she’s been looking for him for so long, doesn’t give a single shit that he’s agitated, pissy. She’s still so content to just know he’s safe, sitting next to her. 

But really, he doesn’t put up much of a fight, only argues a couple times before giving up on sending her off. Anyways, Carrie figures they both know it’s just for show, one of his special ops ego things. Because she’s pretty certain he’s glad to not be alone, regardless of what he says. And right then there’s nowhere she’d rather be than sitting with him on a hospital bathroom floor, pretending not to rub his back as he pukes out his guts. 

* 

Her phone rings, knocking Carrie out of a light sleep. She silences the ringer, looks immediately to see if it’s woken Quinn up but he appears to be dozing still, frowning at his dreams. 

He’s been sleeping a lot more the past couple days, finally done with the vomiting, the constant shakes. And it’s nice to see him start to loosen up, release some of the tenseness. He’s even not constantly irritable anymore, has spent his time demanding details of her actions, how the hell she managed to track him from Langley. Though he does still continuously tell her she should go home, that he’ll be fine. 

Carrie looks at the phone, sighs. Picks it up and walks out the door, ready to do battle yet again. 

“Hi, Maggie,” she answers, trying not to be irritable already. 

“Hey Carrie,” her sister replies. “Just calling to see how everything’s going.” 

Sure, Carrie thinks. Like she isn’t calling to judge, admonish, blame. The thing is, Carrie knows Maggie is right, that she should be allowed some answers - especially as she’s taking care of Frannie. Yet there’s no way to explain this to her sister - that she has to stay because she just has a sense that she has to. That he will promise to see her stateside and then disappear. 

It will sound like a manic delusion, an idea of reference. Not that she hasn’t had them before. But this time she’s not off her pills, knows she didn’t tip over the edge. Yet she’s not sure the same can be said for Quinn.

Even in the two half-conscious days she’s had with him, Carrie can see he’s different, edgier. Tired, maybe a bit meaner. Things that were always there with him but honed sharper. 

And maybe it’s just the withdrawal, but she thinks it’s more. This is Quinn in his special ops mode, she realizes. And she’s not sure he wants to come back. 

All of this flashes through her head, makes her edgy and irritable before she even starts to speak. 

“Everything’s going the same as before, Maggie,” Carrie says tiredly, only barely managing to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “I said I’d call if I knew anything more.” 

Maggie sighs, does that judgy pause thing. 

“So there’s still no timeline on you coming home?” she asks, even though she must know what the answer will be. How many times have they played this game, Carrie thinks. Though she has to admit things are a lot different with Frannie to consider. 

“Maggie, I’d tell you if I knew,” Carrie replies. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not fair to you or to Frannie. I know you don’t believe me but I swear this is the last time.” 

Maggie makes another sound of disbelief, clearly exasperated. 

“Your daughter needs you, Carrie,” she says sternly. “Come home to her.” 

With that Maggie hangs up, leaves Carrie leaning against the wall, fighting the endless guilt. 

She knows Maggie doesn’t see it, wouldn’t believe that she feels like shit about leaving Frannie again, that this time she knows she’s fucking up. In Kabul, in Islamabad, she was running from that life, fucking freaked out at the idea of being a mother. Now Carrie’s trying to do the opposite - run from the life she’s always known towards one where she could conceivably be a mom. There’s just one problem in between. 

The thing is she doesn’t even know how she feels about him, other than conjoined, somewhat guilty. That she owed him this, she is sure. But when Carrie thinks of what Quinn needs, what she wants, the questions are unanswerable. She is out now, almost to her own surprise. Ready for something new. 

But she and Quinn are a volatile pair, somehow both deeply connected yet fundamentally fucked up. She can tell he’s slightly uncomfortable with her being here for him, that he does not want to be taken care of. Yet she also knows he wouldn’t even accept it of anyone else, that she is the only one he would allow to do this for him. 

What she doesn’t know is what Quinn wants, whether he was serious that night, why he ran without a word. From what she can tell so far, he’s grateful but seclusive - hard and tense. 

But regardless, Carrie is sure she needs to stay until he’s back on his feet, ready to figure out his next move. She knows she’s not being paranoid when she thinks Adal’s guys will show up the moment she leaves. And she’s not leaving this emotionally frail, physically beaten Quinn to be eaten up by the machine. 

So she walks back into Quinn’s room and he’s awake now, gives her an unreadable look as she enters. 

“Who called?” he asks, reminding her that he’s an operator, doesn’t miss anything even though exhausted and ill. 

“Maggie,” Carrie replies with a shrug. Tries to play it off as just another call, doesn’t want Quinn to know the pressure she’s facing on the home front. She hasn’t mentioned Maggie’s constant irritation with her, not even when Quinn asked about Frannie. It’s not something she wants to think about and certainly something she doesn’t want him to worry about. 

“You should go home, Carrie,” he mutters. It’s his new favourite thing to say to her, she thinks. And she’s trying her best not to be pissed off at him for it, but it does make her feel like he’s trying to shake free of her just so he can take off again, play her for an idiot. 

“Jesus, Quinn,” she snaps. “Stop trying to get rid of me.” 

That at least makes him pause, look taken aback for a moment. Then he blinks and somehow he’s softened, has slipped out from under his hard edge. 

“Carrie, you can’t fix this,” Quinn says. “Everything I’ve fucked up, who I am. But if you’re really out, you can do what you need to do. Go home, be with your kid.” 

She knows he’s right, that it’ll take more than just her to get him out, that she was never sure she could be that person for him anyhow. But this thing she feels for him, this undefinable attachment, a somesort of love. That’s what she can’t let go of. To just set him free so he can destroy himself. She couldn’t live with it. 

“And what are you going to do?” she asks, wonders what lie he will give. 

“I’ll get out of here, find a way out,” he replies. “I’ll come find you stateside.” 

Carrie exhales in disbelief, raises her eyebrows to the roof.

“Sure, Quinn,” she says. “We both know you’ll never get out on your own. You’ll end up holed up in some basement somewhere, either dead or killing someone.” 

It comes out harsher than she expected, a seeming judgement on his existence. But Quinn doesn’t flinch, just looks at her stonily, absorbing her words. 

It’s the same impasse they keep coming to, one she has no idea how to resolve. Especially because she has only the vaguest ideas of what she wants, none at all of his desires.   Neither of them are talkers, very good at sharing. But it’s obvious that a conversation needs to happen, that one of them is going to have to man up and start it. 

So Carrie takes a breath, gives him a considered look. Wonders if she’s ready for this, then knows it’s going to happen anyways, that there’s no containing it now. 

“Truths only,” she says seriously, wonders if he will argue, resist. 

But Quinn just gives her a impassive look, then nods once. 

“You can go first,” she offers, mostly because she’s not sure where to start. 

“Your idea, you go,” he replies. 

Carrie pauses, knows she’s about to open a giant can of worms, shine a spotlight on the elephant in the room. 

“How do you feel about me?” she asks, trying her best to pose the question as neutrally as possible. 

Quinn gives her a dark look, somewhat foreboding, she thinks. Doesn’t answer for so long that she thinks he’s quit the game before it’s even started. 

But she lets the tense silence stand, waits impatiently for him to reply. And eventually he licks his lips, looks at her intently. 

“Fuck,” Quinn starts, glancing away for a moment. Then looks at her again, starts speaking quietly. 

“I think I might love you, Carrie” he says irritably. “And that scares the shit out of me.” 

Carrie tries not to react but raises her eyebrows at his statement, is surprised at his honesty.   “Why?” she asks, wonders how it is for him, why he’s so afraid. 

Again Quinn doesn’t reply right away, seems to be searching hard for the answer. Then finally he exhales, looks away again as he answers. 

“I like to be good at what I do,” he mutters. “And I am not good at this.” 

Carrie nods, knows where he’s coming from. It’s essentially what’s kept her from succeeding at relationships. Well, that plus the part of her that decided she was fundamentally flawed, unsuitable for happy cohabitation. 

“Me neither,” she says, with just a hint of a smile. 

And it’s not like he’s really told her anything new, anything she couldn’t infer from his actions. But it’s still comforting to hear him admit it, to have gotten this far with him at least. 

Quinn looks a bit pissed off now and she can tell he feels exposed, too open. Which is fair enough, she thinks. He had answered more truthfully than she expected, took her challenge to heart. 

“Your turn,” she says, with only a hint of nervousness. 

Quinn blinks, tilts his head thoughtfully. Carrie wonders what he’s going to ask, thinks he might just throw the same question back at her. Which would be interesting, because she has no idea what she would say, how to express how she feels about Quinn in words. 

But in the end he asks the same thing he keeps coming back to, looks at her with a slightly suspicious frown as he takes his turn. 

“Why did you bother?” he asks, the slight disgust in his voice clear.

And really it’s pretty much the same question, just posed in a different way. It shows where he’s at, clearly indicates he thinks she shouldn’t have wasted her efforts. 

So far she’s pinned it on obligation, that she owed him something after he saved her so many times. But she knows he’s now asking if there’s something more, anything she hasn’t revealed. 

Carrie thinks about how she felt when she saw him at her dad’s funeral, how overcome she was by relief, thankfulness, love. And then he had been different too. Open to possibility, away from the dark. 

Was that the first time she realized she might love him? Not exactly, but it was sometime during all that worry. Maybe when she figured out that losing him would create an unrepairable hole in her, maybe when she finally understood everything he did for her. 

Does she still love him? Carrie honestly doesn’t know the answer. She does in her own way, in a way that she doesn’t love anyone else. But love doesn’t equal a relationship, a life together. And that part she sees as unlikely, somehow just not in their cards. 

Yet he certainly brings out the commitment in her, an attachment she obviously doesn’t want to let go of. And now he’s sitting there, waiting expectantly for an answer she doesn’t know how to give. 

But Carrie knows she has to try, that this was her idea after all. 

“God, this sounds pathetic,” she starts with a huff. “Other than Frannie - who I keep screwing up with, and my sister - who’s stuck with me, you’re the only one I’ve got, Quinn. The only person out there that really means something to me.” 

Quinn frowns, looks unsure of her response. 

“So what do I mean?’ he asks.

She wonders how to say it, honestly did not think she would ever actually be forced to tell him this. Stops to really think about it, wants to get it exactly right. 

“You’re the only one that ever really cared about me,” she confesses. “Other than my family. Even Saul. He only cared about the results, never about me. But you. You went through a lot of shit for me. Even though I couldn’t see it at the time.” 

Quinn finally smiles at that, shakes his head a bit ruefully. 

“Fuck, I was really hard on you, Quinn,” Carrie says with a short laugh. 

Quinn nods, seems to be thinking about what she’s just said. 

“So you saved me because I’m a sap,” he finally says, still wearing a hint of the smile. 

Carrie laughs again. Shrugs. 

“Could be,” she says with a nod. “Or I really just couldn’t lose anything else. Especially not you.” 

Quinn shakes his head, lets the smile fade off. Glances away for a moment, then looks at her impassively again. 

“Why not, Carrie?” he asks. “I made my choice. You should have just let me go. We both know this could never work out. I was fucking dreaming.” 

And now they’re finally getting down to the heart of it, the real questions on the table.

“Is that why you ran?” she asks. 

Quinn freezes, clearly tenses up. And then she’s surprised to hear him answer, tell her the truth. 

“I ran because I don’t know how to do this,” he says matter of factly. “I know who I am. And I was scared as fuck of either answer. So I did what I always do.” 

Carrie smiles wanly. 

“Me too,” she admits. 

And that’s the core of the issue, she realizes. That they are both people who don’t know how to do this, that their post-traumatic closeness has yet again fucked up both their lives. 

“So now what?” Quinn asks. 

“I don’t know, Quinn,” Carrie replies, slightly exasperated. “Can’t I just love you and worry about you and want you to be alright in a way that isn’t so fucking complicated?” 

He genuinely laughs at that, then gives her a deadly serious look. 

“Not that I’ve been able to determine,” he says. “It’s always going to be complicated between us, Carrie.” 

And that is really the truth of the matter, Carrie thinks. Something that was obvious before they had this heart to heart. 

She senses they’ve burned out on talking without having solved anything. Still she’s glad they put things out in the open, understand each other a little better at least. 

“Well, I’m not leaving,” she finally says, though she figures he already knows this. “Not until they release you and you come back home with me. What happens from then on, who knows. Deal?” 

Quinn grunts his disapproval at her terms but seems to have lost a layer of hardness, that desire to fight her on everything. And then he looks at her firmly, as if somehow seeing her for the first time. 

“You’ll never cease to amaze me, Carrie,” he finally says with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry I’m such a dick.” 

She actually laughs at that, remembers exactly how much a dick he can be. Gives him a conspiratorial look and a knowing smile. 

“I know who you are, Peter Quinn,” she says seriously. “And I think I just made it pretty clear how I feel about you.” 

And that at least leaves him with a grin on his face, a little calmness in his body. It’s nice to see after he’s been so tense this whole time and Carrie wonders if she should push her luck, see if they can withstand further closeness. 

Because she knows it’s an opening, a chance to hold onto him despite the odds. So Carrie approaches, really looks at him. 

Quinn is still gaunt, pale and sharp. Always on the lookout, easily startled, slow to warm. But she knows what he’s made of, why he has to wear so much emotional armour. 

And in some way she will always love him, no matter what comes. 

“No expectations,” she says, exactly as he did the day she found him, finally talked him down. 

She can tell he remembers, but still looks briefly surprised as she slips a kiss onto his lips. Not full of heat, not like that one night. Instead it feels short but very sweet, all her affection for him placed in the gesture, all her worry too, her fears for his future. 

And she can tell Quinn understands just by the look on his face. As thoughtful as ever but content for once, as if he finally knows what to do. 

*

He’s gone when she comes back the next day and Carrie can’t say if she’s surprised. It had clearly been a possibility, particularly with his hatred of hospitals, his tendency to run from situations. 

And of course she’s mad, swears at him time and again. Especially because she knows he did it for her, to force her to go home. 

Carrie stands and glares at the empty bed, silently giving Quinn shit for making decisions for her again. She knows he will be fine, that he will hole up somewhere, recover his strength. But she also senses that this could be it, that he is really setting her free. 

So now she’s standing there, adrift. And only then does she notice the edge of the envelope, in a spot only an operative would look. 

Carrie pulls it out, looks at it for a long moment. She can tell it’s a note but the envelope isn’t addressed. Finally she rips it open, takes a breath, and reads what’s written. 

c

You know I had to do this, that I couldn’t keep you from Frannie any longer. One of us had to make the hard choice and I decided to do it. You have so much ahead of you, a real chance. I won’t keep you from that. 

I don’t know what I’ll do, if I can ever change. I’m sorry for leaving after everything you did for me. I still can’t really believe it and I can’t put into words what it means to me. Just know I’ll never forget you. And you deserve to be loved.

q

It’s a terse as she expects but Carrie’s sobbing by the end. Rereads the note a hundred times, oscillating a million times between anger and acceptance. 

It’s the end of something she’s counted on for so long. This fucked up thing they had. And rationally she knows it’s the right move, that they are both better off this way. But emotionally Carrie is at a loss, untethered. 

She stands there, still staring at the bed. Wondering where she should go, what she has left. And of course the answer is obvious, exactly why Quinn left. 

She even admits it’s somewhat of a relief, this out he’s given her. That she can go home, get rid of her other nagging worry, actually be with Frannie instead of constantly pawning her off. 

Carrie knows she has a lot of time to make up for with her daughter, has felt a certain impatience to get started, figure out what the hell she is going to do with herself. But she had put it all on hold to deal with the Quinn situation. And now he was forcing her hand. 

It makes her both hate and love him more, remember how often it is like that for them. And all she can do is silently curse his name while grudgingly appreciating his gesture, 

Carrie takes one more second to look over the room, see if he left any clues. But she already knows she won’t find anything, that he does not mean to be found. So all she can do is say a mental goodbye, silently swear at him for denying her the chance to do so in person. Although she knows it’s for the best, that neither of them would have done well with that situation. 

One more time she tells the ghost of Quinn to take care of himself, that she will never stop thinking about him. And then Carrie takes out her phone, calls Maggie to tell her she’s finally coming home. 

fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's actually done! thanks for reading to the end, apologies to anyone who hoped for a happy ending... oh and there will be an epilogue sometime soon.


	13. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was writing the new one and remembered I wrote this ages ago and never posted it. so thought it would be good time to put it out right now for all us suffering through this week until 5.10 airs...

Quinn’s starting to feel like a mole, has been hiding in a hole for too long. Not that he’s used to luxury accommodations, but six months of dingy basement dwelling has left him feeling claustrophobic, pent up. 

Yet it was what he needed - time to recuperate on his own, recover his strength. After he took off from Lundstahl, finally let her go. He had to hunker down, reassess. 

First, came his own brand of physical therapy, involving a lot of painful reps, trying to push his weakened body past the limit. There had been a lot of fucking scar tissue to work through, possibly some screaming involved. But Quinn had readily welcomed the pain, wanted the burn - it was the only thing that made him feel alive at all. 

The rest of it, anything other than physical training, was cut from his life. Not that there was a lot there before. The job. And, of course, her. Unacceptable things to consider. 

It was hard at first, always so present in his head. So he just pushed himself harder, exhausted himself into a state of mindless physicality. Like special ops training camp where they try to break you down in every way. This was Quinn’s personal re-training, to break him of his one bad habit. 

Clear his head. Act like a fucking soldier again. Leave behind all the regret, any shred of hope for something else. Accept that this is it. That he had his chance, fucked it up like always.

The thing is, when you live in a hole, it’s easy to renounce things of the light. Human emotion, caring. Quinn feels feral now, surviving only on instinct. Nothing left in the world, probably a price on his head. 

Most of the time he doesn’t know why he bothers to train, to regain his former capabilities. Yet it’s something to do, mindless and time consuming - exactly the features he was looking for. 

Quinn grunts, looks around at his dismal surroundings. It’s been exactly what he needed until now, a place to hide away from the world. But he also knows it’s coming to an end, that he is going to have to make a choice. 

A new life, a new identity. It had possibilities. And yet how to explain the constant looking over the shoulder, the feeling of the scope on you. And who even to explain it to? Some regular civilian? Another motel manager? 

The thing is Quinn has no idea what he fucking wants. Has only done one thing for so long now that he’s not sure how to do anything else. And those spells that come and go, the interludes of regret, caring, self-hate. Well, he’s only ever found one way to solve them and that was to go back to the job, back to what he’s good at. Even if it means losing himself to the pit. Maybe because it means it. 

Quinn flashes back to Syria, the destruction of Aleppo, dead children on the streets, howling parents. The brutality of war, the cold hard realities of the situation on the ground. Teenagers brainwashed into martyrdom, young girls taken as sex slaves. It makes his skin crawl, his shoulders tense. This is what happens when he lets himself think, part of the reason he tries to keep his mind blank these days. Trying to live only in the present moment, completely detached from the outside world. 

A sudden loud bang snaps him sharply back into focus, out of Syria, back in his hideout. Quinn calmly takes a deep breath then draws his weapon. No one has come to his door in six months and he had chosen a completely secluded location. Whoever is there isn’t there by accident, that much he is sure of. 

Yet someone here to kill him wouldn’t knock on the door so Quinn figures it’s best to confront the situation, see what he’s dealing with. Opens the door with his gun ready to fire, isn’t particularly surprised to find an unknown man with a matching gun standing on the other side. 

Part of him wants the other guy to charge him, threaten him, give him a chance to work out some of his pent up aggression, try out his fully healed body. But the man just hands him an envelope, silently walks away. 

Leaves Quinn with the same decision, an entirely new set of parameters. If they know where he is there could be a sniper rifle pointed permanently on his door, waiting for him to appear just once. A siege of one, Quinn thinks darkly. Though it’s pretty much been his life for the past six months anyway. 

He wonders what they want, sits down and opens the envelope. It contains a mobile phone, only one contact on it. 

Quinn sits and stares at the phone for awhile, thinks through all that it represents. He knows they have him, that he will make the call. It’s that or spend the rest of his life waiting to be killed, wondering when it will come. And in this world that he can’t escape, it’s always better to be the hunter. At least it’s a way of life he knows well. 

So he picks up the phone, presses dial. It rings once, is answered by a voice he had hoped to never hear again. 

“Peter,” Adal says in his stern, condescending tone. 

“Dar,” Quinn replies coldly. 

“I hear you’ve recovered,” Adal says. 

That part does bother him - that the Agency found him, has obviously been watching him. He leaves the basement only in the dark and only for brief errands. He hasn’t spoken to anyone he knows in the six months he’s been there. 

“And that you have a bit of a problem,” Adal continues, when Quinn doesn’t reply. “I’m offering you a way out of your situation.”

“How’s that?” Quinn asks tiredly. 

“I lost my point man in Syria,” Adal replies. “I need you to replace him.” 

“Just like that,” Quinn says skeptically. “You must be desperate.” 

He hears Adal snarl, can picture the old man’s expression. But as much as he despises the man, Quinn knows how this will end. His old life is calling. And Adal holds most of the cards. 

“You know your alternative,” Adal states icily, reminding him that the decision wasn’t really his to make anyways. 

“Maybe I’m ready to die,” Quinn replies, just to keep Adal guessing, fuck with his plans. 

The thing is, he thinks it might be true. But doesn’t want to go out in a bunker in Berlin, would like to at least be killed in action, try to give some meaning to his dark existence. 

“And maybe you’re not the only ex-operative whose life is in danger,” Adal answers snidely. 

Fuck, Quinn thinks. He honestly had not seen it coming. Had slammed the door shut on any thoughts of her as soon as he went to ground in Berlin. Absolutely did not think of her having an actual life, raising her kid. All of that was forbidden. 

But of course Adal would do this, remind him of his one weakness, use it against him. And Quinn knows his former boss isn’t necessarily bluffing, that the man would probably gladly kill Carrie himself. 

Quinn’s pissed off at himself for not anticipating this, for the reaction he’s having to the threat. He had convinced himself he was done with it, that six months of the dark had finally cured him of caring. 

But then again, he also knows he’s been lying to himself all along. Because there’s no conceivable situation in which he would not care if Carrie were to live or die. No matter how far gone he is, it will always be there. 

So this time Quinn has no choice. Yet he’s not even that upset about it, knows that this is his due. He needed something to focus on, a mission. And killing militant jihadists in Syria to keep Adal away from Carrie actually sounded like the perfect combination. Something to do, a reason to do it. And with all his pent up frustration, anger at himself, he may actually be ready to go back to what he does best. 

“Give me a time and a place,” Quinn growls into the phone. “If anything happens to her, you know I’m coming for you.” 

Adal scoffs, sounds both smug and irritated when he replies. 

“She is going to be your undoing, Peter,” Adal says with sigh. “Ramstein, oh six hundred tomorrow. Your ticket is booked from Berlin and your credentials will be delivered shortly.” 

With that Adal hangs up, leaves Quinn sitting, staring blankly into the dark recesses of his dank basement. 

That’s it, he thinks to himself. His path has been chosen. 

It’s not even a terrible fate, possibly the best of all his options. Because he is ready to do something, get into the action again. And to live or die in Syria, fighting to make the world a little bit safer, protecting the only thing he still cares about. It’s what he does, all he’s good for. 

Lost in thought, somewhere between his dank basement and what awaits him in the depths of Syria, Quinn mentally prepares himself for what’s ahead. Lets himself sit in the darkness, the memories of war. Death, destruction. His old familiar self. 

And then, just as he’s locked away the last remnants of any emotion brought up by Adal’s threats, readied himself for what’s to come, there’s another knock at his door. 

Adal’s delivery, Quinn thinks. That was quick. 

He walks over to the door, aims his weapon; then nearly drops it in surprise as the door opens.

*

Carrie exits the airport and breathes in the crisp autumn air. Realizes she hasn’t been anywhere since she was last in Germany, six months without a single unexpected need to fly off to a dangerous location. And now she’s a free woman, an increasingly responsible mom. Yet here she is, alone and back in Berlin - Frannie visiting grandma with Maggie and her kids. 

It’s strange to without her daughter, after six months of actual parenting. The closeness she now feels with Frannie is nothing she’s ever experienced before. Being a primary caregiver, having someone so reliant on her. Carrie’s surprised that she’s already become so comfortable with it, has even come to enjoy it. Taking care of Frannie, living a quieter life. 

Especially after the bullshit she had come back to after taking off for Turkey, abandoning ship. It had been clear that things were done between her and Saul and her last act as an officer was to give testimony against him, harming his bid for the directorship. And then formally leaving the Agency, all the agreements, polygraphs, bureaucratic bullshit. 

But then suddenly it was done, she had quit her job. Everything she had ever known, really. Even now, nearly six months later, Carrie isn’t quite used to being a regular civilian, just another middle-class single mom. 

And now she’s in Berlin for a job interview, got the lead from an old acquaintance at the BND. Head of security for the Düring foundation, a philanthropic organization involved in providing aid to the middle east, along with other branches. 

It’s the perfect opportunity, really. Carrie wants to start fresh, somewhere new. And she’s always liked the grey cold war feeling of Berlin, the sense of history there.

It would be a good place to live with Frannie, show her a bit of the world, she thinks to herself on the cab ride into the city. And somewhere where she can reinvent herself, get away from all the darkness that’s been her life until now. 

But before that, there’s one last thing she needs to take care of. 

* 

The last rays of daylight are fading into the sky when Carrie steps out of the u-bahn station, looks around warily at her new surroundings. 

It’s a far cry from sleek new Berlin, where her interview at the Foundation had been. Pretty much the end of the line, industrial and barely lit. And still she has a ways to walk, counts on getting lost at least once along the way. 

Carrie walks and thinks. Preps herself for whatever might come. It’s likely she’s on a fool’s errand, received bad intel. A long shot at best. But she had to try, couldn’t just sit on it. Even though she was out, done with it all. 

And even if she’s successful. What then? 

In many ways she doesn’t know why she’s doing this, what she hopes to gain. Yet here she is, standing at a hidden basement door, a couple miles from nowhere. 

Carrie readies herself to knock, feels a shiver in her neck. Looks around to see if anyone is there, then tells herself to stop being paranoid, that she had left that world behind. 

Which is fairly ironic, hypocritical even. Because here she is, knocking on the reinforced metal door. 

She’s surprised when it opens fairly quickly, had expected to need persistence to get a response. But not nearly as surprised as Quinn looks, as stunned as she’s ever seen him, pointing his gun in her face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snaps, gun still aimed. 

“It’s nice to see you too, Quinn,” she replies with scowl. “Can I come in?” 

Quinn stares at her suspiciously for a moment, his eyes ice cold. Then he exhales irritably, puts down his weapon and stands aside to let her in. 

Carrie walks by, looks around at the bleak space of Quinn’s life. It looks like he’s just packed, everything completely bare. Which makes her wonder about timing, if she had almost just missed him. Or if he just still lives ready to run at any moment.

He walks up to her, still looks tense, unsure. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, in that guarded way he has. 

“New job,” she replies. “Interview was here.” 

He gives her a look, and she knows what he means. Gives him the same look back, then scowls, remembers how frustrating he is. 

“I mean why are you here,” he says, emphasis on the ‘here’. 

Good question, Carrie thinks. And she doesn’t really know the answer either, certainly can’t put it into words. 

“Well, that’s pretty fucking obvious,” she replies. “No?” 

“I thought we were done with this,” Quinn says, a warning in his voice. 

“Funny, I don’t remember us deciding anything,” Carrie retorts. “You just left.” 

“It was pretty fucking clear,” he snaps back. 

“Clear to you, maybe,” she replies, just as sharply. 

“And what wasn’t clear to you?” Quinn asks. 

Carrie wonders why almost all of their conversations go like this, why they are always at odds while fundamentally wanting the same thing. To make the world a better place, keep each other safe. 

“The part where I never see you again, where you disappear forever,” she states angrily. “Jesus, Quinn. Yeah, it was complicated. But...” 

“But what?” he replies, calling her out as always. 

And that’s the problem, Carrie knows. The life she is hoping for has no place in it for a Quinn, is far away from all the moral ambiguities that come with her past. Yet there’s a part of her that refuses to forget him, that’s reluctant to abandon this one thing she’s still holding onto.

Quinn stares right into her, his gaze full of icy intensity. She can tell he doesn’t want her there, just wants to be left alone in his dungeon. He’s as tense as she’s ever seen him, guarded, closed off. 

When she doesn’t answer, he gives her a dark look. 

See, he says with his expression. You have nothing. 

“Really, Carrie,” he finally says tiredly. “What are you doing here?” 

He keeps asking her the same question, the only question really. And Carrie knows she should have come up with a better answer before she showed up at his door, that she should have something to tell him now. 

The problem is she doesn’t really know why she’s there, what she was trying to accomplish. Knows she wasn’t going to bring him home, start a life with him, cure him of all his troubles. And yet, when she found out where he was, there was nothing that could have stopped her from going there, regardless of any consequences, any reasons. 

But Quinn is waiting for an answer and she knows he’s already over the conversation, is just trying to wait it out until she gives up and leaves. Which means this is probably it, her last chance to say anything to him before he takes off somewhere dangerous, drops out of her life for good. 

Carrie stands there silently for a long while, looks at Quinn intently, wondering what she could possibly say to get through the steely exterior he has on. 

Really she knows there’s nothing she can say that will change his mind, make any difference. But as she stands there staring at this stonecold Quinn, Carrie realizes exactly why she’s there, maybe what drew her to Berlin in the first place. 

And it’s likely their last moment so she takes a breath, gives him a hard look, tells him what she knows to be true. 

*

“I’m looking for something I lost,” Carrie says, looking at him in a way that makes him uncomfortable, even through all his layers of emotional guardedness. 

He had been so sure there was nothing she could say that would even make a scratch, that he was completely done with all their back and forths. But just standing there and arguing with her has already opened a seam in his armour, made him actually care about something. 

Quinn still can’t believe she even found him, much less that it was on the same day the CIA came calling. At first he had been sure that the two incidents had to be related, but Carrie doesn’t seem to have come with any agenda, looks about as unsure as he is. And she certainly doesn’t seem to know that her safety is danger, that the Agency could be after her. 

He wonders what she thinks she lost, hopes she figures out quickly that the Quinn she thinks she knows really is gone. And this is the ultimate test, really. Because he’s only that person when she’s around. So if he can get past this, he’ll really be gone. 

Quinn doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t make her stop, leave. Gives her a look that says he took the bait, that he’s waiting for her to continue. 

“Something to go on for, something more than all that death. I look at Frannie and I want to see a future, not just more war, more hate,” Carrie says. 

He can almost remember how it felt, to be able to think about a better future, a different path. But only because she’s there in front of him, always a catalyst for his hopeless desires. 

Still, he knows his choice has been made, that there is only one way out for him. And this is his chance to close the door. 

“I am that death, Carrie,” Quinn finally says, as coldly as he can. “You know that.” 

Carrie sighs, exhales loudly. Gives him a piercing look, half concern, half anger. 

“But you don’t have to be,” she replies fiercely. “It isn’t the only way.” 

It’s distressing how her presence makes him reconsider these simple truths, tempts him to make poor decisions. And it’s worse now that she actually cares, wants to help. Because he knows there’s no hope, that he’s just deadweight in this type of situation. As much as he blamed her for keeping him in the game, Quinn knows it is still all on him. He will always go back to it, to what he knows. And he will not pull her back in, cannot risk being anywhere close to her. 

But fuck does she make it difficult, is looking at him in that certain Carrie way. He’d forgotten how it felt to be with her, the magnetic pull between them. 

“It is,” he finally replies, trying to make himself steel. “It’s who I am.” 

Carrie keeps giving him the same disbelieving look, then steps forward, closes the distance between them. 

She’s standing uncomfortably close, eyeing him in a way he can’t read. Quinn can feel the heat of her between them, wills himself not to melt as he waits for her to respond. 

But Carrie doesn’t say anything, just reaches out, grabs the hem of his t-shirt and starts to lift it before he even has time to register what’s happening. 

And for a moment Quinn thinks things are really about to go sideways, that their mutual fear is about be forcefully confronted. Tells himself whatever happens, this will be the end - he will not let her in this time. Yet he resists his instinct to push her away, lets her raise his shirt up to his arms, is a bit disappointed when she stops there. 

Quinn unconsciously holds his breath, wonders what the hell Carrie is doing and yet doesn’t stop her, doesn’t move. She’s looking intently at the striped flesh of his chest, his souvenirs from Syria, round one. Then she presses her hand up against all the scar tissue, directly over his heart.

“See, like new,” he quips darkly, glancing away uncomfortably. 

But Carrie just shakes her head, keeps looking right at him. 

He can feel her emotions through their one point of contact, can feel the warmth of her hand thawing the ice within. And, as hardened as he had become, Quinn realizes he isn’t ready for this, that she will always be his one weakness. 

Standing there, the heat of her on his skin. It’s his final exam, his penance too. 

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Carrie finally says. “I know who you are, Quinn. You gave me this chance. You gave me a life.” 

She’s right and she’s wrong. Because that’s exactly what he needed to hear, is not nearly as emotionless as he tries to be. It’s all that matters - that she’s safe, has another chance. 

So he isn’t lost, completely gone. Yet it does have to be like this - there is no way out for him, certainly no happy endings. 

He puts his hand over hers, grips it hard. Then takes her hand off his heart, unable to withstand any more. 

She doesn’t let go of his hand, gives him her sternest look. 

And for just a flash there, he slips up, remembers that he loves her. Startled, Quinn closes it down right away, shuts the emotion back behind the wall. But it was there. 

He shakes his head, exhales loudly. 

“I don’t have a choice,” he finally says. “I’m either in or I’m dead, Carrie.” 

He doesn’t mention the part where she could be dead too, that they are both probably in it for life. Though Quinn still thinks it’s possible for her to get out, it’s a longshot at best. 

Carrie looks at him and he can see her starting to see the situation. They both know how this kind of thing works, especially in his branch of the Agency. 

“This is who I am,” Quinn says. Though he knows why she doesn’t understand this completely. Because he’s not himself around her, used up a lifetime of emotion in just three years. 

“But maybe you have a chance, Carrie,” he continues. “Get out while you can; then you won’t have to associate with people like me anymore.” 

*

He’s right and she knows it, just hates to accept it. 

This is the Quinn who stabbed Brody in the hand without a second thought. She had almost forgotten about that guy, Quinn when she first met him. And this is the Quinn who would have blown up Haqqani, all the people in front of his compound. 

But for a moment she had felt it, felt him. And now Carrie realizes that’s all she really came for. To see him, to see if he was still there. That she hadn’t completely lost the only person from her past she wanted to hold on to. 

She can see him fighting it now, knows there’s more than he’s telling her. But she also knows he’s given in to the game, fallen back into the same trap. The one she’s trying to get out of, maybe even has a real chance at. 

Carrie exhales irritably, looks into Quinn’s deadened eyes, 

“I happen to like you,” she snaps at him. 

Quinn frowns at that, glances away. 

“But I get that you have no other way out,” she continues. 

The Agency has something over him, that much is clear. His life, maybe. But something else too. 

He looks back at her, nods wearily. 

Carrie realizes she’s still clinging to his hand, doesn’t want to let go. But it says something that he hasn’t pulled away, resisted. 

“Remember me when you’re out there, Quinn,” she says, fighting back tears. 

She can tell he’s trying to stay cold, fighting with himself. Resisting the part of him that always seems to arise when she’s around. And she knows it’s not up to her to pull him out of it, that she has her own life to live. But she can still miss this ice cold assassin with a heart full of doubts, the guy who stuck around against his best judgement just to save her from herself. 

Carrie lets go of his hand, figures he’s decided to just stonewall her out. And she’s run out of things to say, just wants to say inane things like stay safe, don’t die. Which are stupid things to say to anyone, especially Quinn. 

She turns to leave, already misses the Quinn she once knew. Hopes he finds something on the other side of the war, that he doesn’t completely lose himself to it. 

But she’s not even a step away when she feels his hand on her shoulder, freezes in surprise. She had really thought he was done, over everything, unreachable. But this is the Quinn she came looking for, she can feel it in his grip. 

Carrie turns, finds him giving her his usual inscrutable expression. But whereas he was cold before, now Quinn has fire in him and, suddenly, she has no idea what’s going to happen. 

She holds her breath, wonders if they are about to make equally poor choices. And still Quinn is unreadable, looking at her intently. 

He takes a deep breath, exhales loudly. His body language changes, loses its rigidity. Then he pulls her towards him, wraps his arms around her tight. And of course she remembers that day, every one of their fleeting moments. 

Carrie knows this is goodbye, that he’s giving her the last of the Quinn she loves before heading off to war. And all she can do is hold on, hope he remembers this part of himself. 

“I will never forget you, Carrie,” he mutters. 

And if this is it, she will never forget him either. Maybe the most tumultuous three years in a life of extreme ups and downs. She knows she would never have made it through without him, that he gave her a chance at something else. 

From the look in his eyes she knows he’s fighting an impulse, the same one she feels. The mutually bad idea. But just as things are about to tip one way or another, there’s a knock on the door and Quinn’s focus changes, the moment gone. 

He opens the door, wordlessly receives a package and closes it again. Turns as he looks through the contents of the envelope and Carrie can tell it’s cash and ID, knows exactly what that means. 

She realizes she almost just missed him, that he’s probably out the door in the morning. And yet it’s fitting that it ends like this, that their paths cross one more time at the edge of their respective futures. 

Quinn back to his battle, his cold war with himself. And for her? Hopefully something else, a new direction. She has Frannie now, a different perspective on everything she’s done in the name of national security. 

“Do I want to know?” she asks, breaks the silence. 

Quinn shakes his head grimly, is back to being rigid, stone. 

Carrie thinks of all he’s already been through, what it will take to withstand more of that hell. And she knows he has no options, that this is his only way out of a very fucked up situation, that this is the life he chose. Yet she hates having to give in, to lose him to the darkness. 

“Take care of yourself, Quinn,” she says, realizing there’s nothing else to be said. He’s already lost to the mission, now all she can do is hope he survives, that he remembers someone gives a shit if he lives or dies. 

“I’m going to be really upset if I have to attend your funeral,” she adds, just to make the point clear. 

Quinn doesn’t react for a moment and she thinks he’s done talking, that she’s now just conversing with herself. Which is her cue to go, to realize that the visit is over, that she’s overstayed her welcome. 

Upset he has nothing left to say, Carrie gives him one last look, halfway between angry and sad; then turns to leave. 

She’s made it to the door, is unlatching it when she hears his footsteps, feels him behind her. Turns to see the a flash of emotion in him as he stops in front of her, gives her a soulful look. 

“You’d be the only one I want there,” he admits hesitatingly. “I’m going to fucking miss you, Carrie.” 

And that’s the thing. For all his stubbornness, anger issues, self-hatred, and violent ways, she’s going to really miss his presence in her life, all the parts of him that he generally hides away. 

So Carrie takes the moment, tells herself this could be the last time she ever sees him. And this time when she looks at him she reaches up, stands on her tip toes. Watches as he doesn’t resist, leans down towards her. 

His lips are icy as she slips the kiss over them, warms them beneath hers. Quinn only hesitates for the briefest moment, then slowly responds, as if he’s forgotten about the concept of human contact. 

And for a few heartbeats they are back on the street in front of Maggie’s place, finally putting their demons in place. Awash in both darkness and hope, caught between the past and the future. 

But then Quinn pulls away and the moment vanishes, leaves them back in a dingy basement in Berlin. And she understands it’s over, that he’s given her the last drops of the Quinn only she knows. So Carrie takes one last long look, commits him to memory. 

“Bye, Quinn,” she says. “I won’t stop thinking about you.” 

Then walks out the door, ready for her future.


End file.
